


All Greeks Would Die

by fictionalkid



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Dark Will Graham, Drama, Drunk Hannibal Lecter, Eventual Happy Ending, First Kiss, Hallucinations, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal is a dramatic bitch, Hannibal is an ass, Hannibal's childhood trauma, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal Lecter, Mentioned Mischa Lecter, Minor Character Death, Murder, Mutism, Mutual Pining, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, Will has to earn Hannibal's love back, Will is dramatic too but also desperate, courting each other with murder tableaus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:09:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27815848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalkid/pseuds/fictionalkid
Summary: "Let us give in to grief, however briefly, in each other's arms."- The IliadHannibal gave up everything, including his freedom, for Will. And in return, he got married and moved on, leaving Hannibal to rot in prison. Now that the Red Dragon has been defeated, it's Will's turn to prove his love and undying devotion to Hannibal. But of course, Hannibal isn't so easily appeased.~ ~ ~This story follows Will and Hannibal's journey towards a genuine and nurturing relationship though exploring mutually caused hurt, doubts about loyalty and love, and working though heartbreak and trauma together.If anyone is curious about the chapter titles, I named them after the 7 stages of grief, since it seems to be the overarching theme here!
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Will/Molly I guess but not really
Comments: 249
Kudos: 384
Collections: ThisIsMyBeginning





	1. Shock

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Here's my attempt at a post-fall Hannigram AU. This is something I envisioned happening in the show, possibly as the plot for season 4.
> 
> I'm submitting this fic to #ThisIsMyBeginning, a festival by the Hannibal Createive. It's a fitting theme because the main idea is the beginning, albeit a rocky one, of Hannibal and Will's life together post-fall. 
> 
> Enjoy! <3

Will resurfaces, coughing and gasping for air. His ears are ringing, and the saline water is causing his eyes and fresh wounds to sting. He thrashes his limbs frantically in order to stay afloat in the freezing water of the Atlantic. As his body recovers from the shock of being thrown over the cliff and into the depths of the ocean, he starts to gain awareness of what’s around him.

His limbs feel free. Moving without restraint in the water, which is not how they were when his body plummeted into the pitch black mouth of the ocean. Will didn’t fall off the cliff alone, but with arms and legs tightly coiled around the man he pulled with him. 

Suddenly, he can’t breathe, even though his head is now safely above the surface. He looks around in a frenzy, eyes straining to see amidst the waves, searching for Hannibal. When he doesn’t see the familiar sea-dampened dark hair anywhere, he feels fear and panic envelope him, the immediate paralysing effect way stronger than the one elicited by the ice-cold water. 

Then Hannibal’s head emerges from under the vicious waves, coughing and spluttering just like Will a few moments ago. Their eyes interlock, both determined to never break the burning gaze, despite the water brutally splashing over their faces and the salt burning their eyes. They gravitate towards each other, like ships lost at sea that finally discover a lighthouse. 

Once they’re enwrapped in each other, bodies desperately seeking warmth, Will lets his brain process the less important things. The indiscernible ringing in his ears slowly starts to take shape. He can make out the loud rumble of several boat motors. The wail of the sirens. Unintelligible sounds of talking over the loudspeaker. 

Will tears his eyes away from Hannibal’s to really comprehend their surroundings this time. There are several white-and-blue-striped boats surrounding their small entangled bodies, fighting to stay afloat amidst the raging waves. Of course, the FBI had stationed some water units to wait for them just beside the cliff, in case they fell over. Of course. 

They’re trapped. And Will can see only two ways out of this. Either up and into the unforgiving claws of the FBI. Or down, to the comforting bottom of the ocean.

Will doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t want to make a choice. So when a raft is lowered from the nearest boat down to where they are, and Hannibal pushes his body onto it, Will lets him. He is freezing and numb throughout, and Hannibal’s embrace is warm, so he holds on. They’re lying on their sides, limbs still intertwined, chests heaving against each other, when the raft reaches the deck of the boat. 

Immediately, there’s a dozen guns pointed at them from all directions. Will doesn’t look up. He keeps his face buried in the crook of Hannibal’s neck, his stiff arms still locked around the man’s body, clinging to him as if clutching a lifeline. 

One of the officers speaks. Will’s ears are still ringing and he can’t make out anything except _don’t move_ and _hands behind your head_. He lets out a shaky exhale and slowly starts to untangle himself from Hannibal. Then he feels the arm that’s wrapped around his middle tense up, and lips press to his ear.

“Do you trust me, Will?” 

Hannibal’s whisper doesn’t make a sound, the words simply vibrating against Will’s skin. He thinks he almost imagines it; his subconscious asking whose side he’s on, now that his allegiances are undoubtedly going to be questioned.

“Yes,” he breathes, just as silent.

It was never a question. 

As soon as the soundless word drops from his lips, Hannibal springs into action. He pounces onto his feet, hauling Will into a standing position too with the arms wrapped around his waist. The sudden movement produces a surge of vertigo that blurs Will’s vision and makes his head feel light. But the dizzying sensation is quickly curbed by the feel of ice-cold metal on his skin.

There’s a knife firmly pressed against his throat. 

His inhale stops midway, and he freezes; all senses suddenly crystal clear and razor sharp. He’s still enveloped tightly by Hannibal’s body, feeling the man’s chest rise and fall heavily against his damp back. Hannibal’s arm is clenched around the front of his hips, holding their bodies flush against each other. 

It isn’t the first time Hannibal has embraced him while caressing his body with a knife. And just like last time, it is shocking and unexpected, but still somehow feels inexplicably comforting.

The rational part of Will’s brain is screaming at him that there is absolutely no way he should be feeling comforted in the current situation. Anyone in his place would feel petrified to the bone, having their life in the hands of a ruthless serial killer who has escaped from prison and killed a man in the space of several hours. But Hannibal’s body is radiating heat that feels so unthreatening, the warmth soothing the aching lacerations on Will’s shoulder and cheek. So, contrary to everything, he doesn’t feel scared. 

Not because he is certain Hannibal won’t harm him - in fact, he isn’t certain at all. Allowing certainty when it comes to Hannibal Lecter is a mistake, and Will knows this first-hand, the scars on his stomach and forehead proving that he shouldn’t trust the man. He knows he shouldn’t, but there’s a paradoxical part of Will that never listens to reason; the same part that feels unwavering affection towards Hannibal despite the atrocities he’s committed. Because of that little part, Will can’t bring himself to be afraid. 

“Gentlemen, I request that you please lower your weapons.”

Hannibal’s voice is calm and clear, the complete opposite to his heavy breathing and the light trembling of his body that Will can feel reverberating through his own. The request is met with hesitation from the officers, some eyes and gun barrels still firmly focused on the two of them, while the others waver. It’s the harsh sound of Jack’s voice coming from the loudspeaker that shakes the men out of their indecisive state. 

_“He’s got Will Graham. Drop your damn weapons!”_

Will watches in silence as all the guns are placed onto the metal floor with a cascade of clanks. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t think. It’s all too overwhelming to digest; the throbbing pain of his injuries, the paralysing cold, and the fact that he’s being held hostage by the very man Will risked his life to save. A willing hostage, arguably, but that doesn’t make his predicament any less threatening. Will is way too closely-acquainted with Hannibal’s predispositions for not only indifference to the collateral damage his actions cause to the people around him, but the outright willingness to inflict it, if it suited his agenda. 

It’s chilling to think that one careless movement from the FBI lackeys surrounding them, one clumsy attempt to attack, would undoubtedly end with the blade slicing a smooth crescent across Will’s neck and coating everything with a coppery-red spray from his carotids. At least then he’d finally stop feeling so intensely cold; hot arterial blood erupting from his heart and warming up his numb digits. And he’d take his last breath in Hannibal’s arms. Exactly like he planned, when he pushed them over the cliff. 

“Your cooperation is appreciated, officers,” Hannibal speaks, his polite tone in a grand juxtaposition with the fact that he’s treating Will’s life as nothing but his golden ticket to freedom. “Would you be so kind as to get us to the shore?” 

The request is obeyed without delay this time - it’s clear that none of the FBI minions want Will Graham’s blood on their hands. 

The next few minutes pass in a static impasse. No one on board moves, but everybody is ready to, at any moment. The boat glides slowly through the waves towards a dock, where more police officers are waiting, though not a single soul dares to point a weapon at them. 

Will stands and waits, gritting his teeth to ignore the steadily intensifying pain of the wounds Dolarhyde gave him. He casts his eyes to the dark pool of blood gathering at their feet and figures out most of it must be Hannibal’s, wondering with a tinge of worry how the man is still standing. Will’s own limbs feel weak, either from the blood loss or the beginning stages of hypothermia, and all he wants to do is shut his eyes and let whatever happens happen. In a way, he almost feels grateful for the blade that’s pressed to his neck, forcing him to stay still and removing the need for any action or thinking. The role of a passive captive that Hannibal has imposed on him is absolving him from having to choose a side and act accordingly. With great astonishment, Will realises that Hannibal has given him an invaluable gift, allowing him to postpone his decision-making, for now. 

Will knows from experience that accepting a gift from Hannibal, and feeling grateful for it, comes with a price. But for the lack of a better plan, he is ready to play his part in Hannibal’s spectacle, whatever the repercussions may be. 

“Now, I’d like to request a car and all the medical equipment you have on site, please,” Hannibal commands. Despite the polite form, it’s an order. An ultimatum. 

The mention of medical kits is what makes Will realise why Hannibal’s body feels so searing hot against his backside. And that the dampness of his clothes is just as much from the blood leaking out the gunshot wound in Hannibal’s abdomen as it is from the sea water. It suddenly makes sense why Hannibal is holding him so tightly. Not because he’s afraid Will is going to fight or run for his life, but because Will is currently the one holding both of them upright. 

He suddenly understands exactly why they’re positioned as they are; Hannibal’s back to the edge of the boat, making sure nobody can attack them from behind, while shielding himself with Will’s body. If they could see the severity of Hannibal’s gunshot wound, how thoroughly the bullet pierced through his torso, they would know how easy it would be to overpower him. Overpower _them._ Because if Hannibal’s brilliantly orchestrated stand-off somehow got broken, Will has no doubt about whose side he’d be on. 

Once again, Will can’t help but to silently marvel at Hannibal’s limitless ability to turn any unexpected circumstances to his advantage. How he swiftly gained control of the situation despite all odds being against him, creating the illusion that he is far more dangerous than his well-hidden injuries would allow for. This intricate design that is going to guarantee their survival would be almost endearing, if Will ignored the fact that Hannibal is treating his life as a mere bargaining chip in his gamble with the FBI.

When the boat arrives at the shore no more than a few minutes later, the uniformed men step aside to make a clear path to the closest police car. 

“Let’s go, Will. Slow and steady,” Hannibal instructs.

His tone is smooth like honeyed whiskey, which is exactly what makes him sound so menacing. The sea is always at its calmest right before the storm hits. And nobody dares to provoke a storm as deadly as Hannibal Lecter. 

Hannibal’s illusion of thorough control is only betrayed by the way his abdominal muscles are spasming in agony against Will’s lower back. Will can tell the man is barely standing, using every ounce of self-control he has to keep his breathing even and the hand that’s still holding the knife against Will’s neck steady. 

He is broken out of his trance by Hannibal nudging him to move. Will complies, mechanically putting one foot in front of the other. Slowly, just like instructed. Slowly enough where no one can tell if it’s Hannibal pushing both of them forward with elegant ease, or if it’s Will who’s dragging Hannibal’s debilitated body along with him. 

They make their way off the boat and into the car with no complications other than the trails of blood dripping from their fresh wounds. 

The medical supplies that Hannibal requested are already placed on the back seat, and the keys are in the ignition. Hannibal maneuvers Will into the driver’s seat, while swiftly getting himself into the seat directly behind, the blade never losing contact with the skin on Will’s neck. 

As soon as they shut the doors behind them, Will opens his mouth to speak. There are a million questions, a million things he could say to Hannibal right now. Three years worth of things to say, but Will doesn’t know how any of them would be received. 

“Where to?” is all he asks. 

“Head onto Route 17, southbound.” 

Hannibal’s voice is icy and dispassionate. Dishearteningly detached. As if their heartfelt exchange at the edge of the cliff never happened. Will doesn’t know how to interpret it. So, he turns the key in the ignition and starts driving. 

Of course, there are no cars or sirens behind them. Nobody dares to follow; the threat on Will Graham’s life rendering every police officer and FBI underling powerless. Will wants to laugh. It’s one of the few times he’s been made to feel important - like his life matters. He tries to chuckle at the thought, but the gesture causes the muscles around his cheek to tighten painfully.

He hisses at the stinging sensation and swallows instinctively, his larynx bobbing up and down his throat. And that’s when Will realises the knife is gone. He uses the rearview mirror to glance towards the back seat. Hannibal is stretched on his back, using gauze and expertly-applied pressure to reduce the aggressive bleeding of his stomach wound into slight, manageable blotting.

“Can I trust you not to attempt to kill us in a deliberate collision?” he asks, meeting Will’s eyes through the mirror. 

“You can.”

“Good. Because we both have profound injuries to tend to.”

With that said, Will feels Hannibal touch the cut on his cheek. His hands are rough, disinfecting and bandaging the lesioned flesh with clinical precision. It feels vastly different from the last time Hannibal looked after his hurt state, removing Chiyoh’s bullet from his shoulder in Florence. Will deduces that Hannibal must be deeply displeased by his impulsive decision to push them over the cliff. 

“I didn’t think we’d get out of there alive,” he sighs, supposing that he owes Hannibal an explanation. 

“There were other options,” Hannibal counters in a cool tone, now affixing gauze to Will’s shoulder wound, “In the end, it was your self-destructive actions that almost sealed our fate, nobody else’s.”

“Momentarily, while standing up there, I chose our freedom over our lives. Because I didn't think we could have both,” Will confesses softly. 

Hannibal doesn’t respond, and instead pulls back immediately after finishing bandaging Will’s shoulder. Will understands that to be a sign of disagreement. 

“I didn't think you’d pull a hostage stunt like that,” he adds with an incredulous laugh, hoping to ease the tension hanging between them. 

“You dragged me out of confinement to use as a bait, to further your agenda. How did you not foresee that I'd use you as a shield, to further mine?”

“Your agenda is my agenda, Hannibal,” Will admits, quiet but sincere. 

As if it wasn’t already clear whose side he is on, whom his loyalty lies with. Hannibal bought them time so Will could make a decision, but it wasn’t necessary. It has already been made. Always was. 

“I wouldn’t be certain about that,” Hannibal hums in response, lying back down across the seat, his face contorting with pain from the movement. 

“How so?” 

“Take the next exit, please.”

Will wants to object to the sudden change of topic, but decides against it. There’s no need to push it. They don’t have to talk about it now. If all goes to plan - whatever Hannibal’s plan is - they will have time to have all the important conversations that are long overdue. Right now, there are more pressing matters, such as ensuring their freedom and getting somewhere safe to properly treat their injuries, because whatever can be done with the limited medical kit in the back seat of a hijacked police car is a temporary remedy at best.

Hannibal directs them off the highway and onto a small unpaved road that runs along the shore. They leave the car there, continuing down to the beach on foot. Soon, a narrow dock comes into view, with a single speedboat at its side. Will spots a slender figure on the boat, and he can only assume it to be Chiyoh. 

Hannibal stalls just before stepping onto the dock and turns to face Will, his dark brown eyes finding Will’s bright aquamarine ones. Will looks back at him and notices that there is a story unwinding behind Hannibal's gaze, one of fondness, longing and sadness. Emotions that, when combined, would spell out _heartbreak_.

Will doesn’t understand. They’ve made it; defeated the Red Dragon, conquered death, and escaped from the claws of Jack Crawford and the FBI. After everything they’ve been through, they finally found their way back to each other, showing everyone that together they are glorious. In light of all of this, Will can’t see a reason why Hannibal would be looking at him with such bottomless anguish.

He opens his mouth to speak, but halts when Hannibal brings his hand up to cup Will’s uninjured cheek. The wide palm rests against the tip of Will’s chin, fingers gently caressing the side of his face, tracing the sharp jawline. An all-too-familiar gesture between them, performed many times before, yet never evolved into the next stage. 

Will always told himself it was because it wasn’t the right time. Until now. 

Now, there is nothing and no one standing in their way. They’re both ready. So, Will leans into the touch, closes his eyes and parts his lips. _Ready_. Ready to finally do what they should’ve done a long time ago, instead of finding alternatives for their feelings. They had opportunities after opportunities, all of them ending up wasted because they were both too stupid and proud to take the leap. 

Opportunities like that moment in Hannibal’s kitchen, when Hannibal left his mark in Will’s flesh. Or that moment in Uffizi Gallery in Florence, where Will attempted to leave his own mark on Hannibal, only hesitating too long and being punished by a bullet to his shoulder. Or that moment on the cliff, just a few hours ago, before Will decided that facing death would be easier than facing their feelings for each other. Up to this very minute, they’ve been courting each other with violence, the only love language they know, both very aware that it wasn’t working, but still somehow unable to stop.

Now, Will recognizes this moment as another opportunity. And he knows Hannibal does too, from the way his thumb brushes delicately over Will’s lips. He stares into Hannibal’s eyes, only to find that they’re burdened with profound sorrow, as if instead of burying their past, they were burying each other.

“Goodbye, Will.” 

And just like that, he is wounded. Once again, Hannibal shatters the teacup. It hurts more than the knife he sank into Will’s abdomen, more than Chiyoh’s bullet that pierced his shoulder, more than thinking they had no other choice of remaining inseparable but to plummet into the deadly depths of the Atlantic.

Oh, how silly he was, to expect to be kissed by Hannibal, when he knows full well that every time they come close to trying, he only gets hurt. 

“ _What_?” Will splutters, voice breaking under the weight of his devastation. 

He grabs the collar of Hannibal’s shirt to yank their bodies up against each other, a desperate attempt to make their mouths clash. Because he’ll be damned if he comes this far and betrays everyone he knows and leaves them behind, and doesn’t get to show Hannibal who he truly wants to be with. Will doesn’t care if he gets shattered again; this time he’s got nothing to lose. 

He jerks their bodies closer with fevered conviction, only to be stopped by Hannibal’s firm hands on his shoulders, arms stretched out, preventing their lips from touching. Will lets out a confused groan, looking up with a crushed expression at the man in front of him, who once again denied them what they both ache for. 

“This is where we part. Take the car, go back to your wife and son. I’m taking the boat, and you won’t see me ever again.”

Hannibal’s voice is void of emotion, just like the one he used to address the uniformed men preventing their path to freedom. Will’s mouth opens and closes involuntarily in disbelief. He can’t believe that them parting is even an option Hannibal is considering right now. 

Will would go wherever Hannibal goes, would follow him to the edge of the world and back. He’d rather die than be apart again - a sentiment he tried to pay homage to by making them take a plunge into the sea.

“Hannibal, I’m coming with you,” Will spells out, putting the obvious into words. 

“No, you are not.” 

The indisputable finality in Hannibal’s voice makes Will freeze. He watches, paralysed, as Hannibal steps back to put distance between them. A distance that’s mere two steps, but feels like lightyears. That’s when Will realises that this isn’t Hannibal second-guessing him or giving him a chance to go back to his old life. 

This is Hannibal utterly and undeniably rejecting him. 

“Why?” Will cries out as soon as his body regains the ability to speak. 

In just one night, he has ruthlessly murdered a notorious serial killer, survived a fall to imminent death, and escaped from the FBI. All for one man. And Will sure as hell isn’t going to stop fighting now that he is so close to finally getting what he wants. What they both want. 

“You made your choice, Will. The night after Muskrat Farm, when you told me that you didn’t want to think about me anymore. And you kept re-making that choice, every day, for the past three years.” 

Will shakes his head fervently. How could Hannibal be so blind? How could he not see that Will couldn’t stop thinking about him even if he wanted to? He could take any path, run in any direction, but all roads would eventually go back to Hannibal. 

“It was always you, Hannibal. Always will be.” 

“I have given you more chances than you deserve, and you didn’t take any of them. I’ve had enough, Will.” 

Will tries to object, but the words get stuck in his throat, leaving him with nothing else but to beg and plead with his eyes. The look Hannibal gives him in return is blank and unrelenting. 

As a final act of despair, Will rips the gold band off his ring finger in and throws it into the water with frenzied force. He watches as the ring makes a loud splash in the chilling silence and sinks straight to the bottom, buried under the vicious waves. Buried like Will’s marriage and every other aspect of his old life. Because everything in that life that stood between him and Hannibal is dead to him now. 

Will lifts his gaze up slowly, infinitely hopeful about, but also infinitely petrified of, Hannibal’s reaction to his display of devotion. Hopeful that it would help Hannibal see how serious and definitive Will’s choice to be with him is. And petrified because Hannibal would challenge his choice, force Will to prove his loyalty, more than likely in some disturbing and inhumane way. 

But there is no reaction. There is no change in Hannibal’s emotionless expression. No spark ignited in his vacant eyes. 

“Goodbye, Will,” he repeats.

With those words hanging between them in the air, he turns around and walks away, not giving Will another glance. 

Will doesn’t look at him either, pinching his eyes shut so hard it hurts. He’d rather be surrounded by darkness than have the sight of Hannibal walking away from him be the last image he would see of the man, imprinted into his mind forever. His eyes sting, this time from his tears instead of the sea water. 

He lets the exhaustion, blood loss, and excruciating pain finally overpower him, as he collapses onto his hands and knees on the ground. From between his violent sobs, Will can hear the boat engine start, and then slowly fade into the distance. His shaky limbs give out and his chest meets the sand, his entire body feeling slack and powerless. 

He lies there, pretending to be one with the bottom of the ocean, like he planned. Because at least then, he would’ve died victorious in Hannibal’s arms, instead of defeated and alone. 


	2. Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There’s signature elements of il Mostro and the Chesapeake Ripper; he’s recreated a classic art piece. The entire painting this time, not just a segment like with Primavera. And there’s organs missing," Jack says.
> 
> Will nods. It does indeed sound like something Hannibal would do. But why, after months of nobody having a clue of where he’s hiding, would Hannibal suddenly make himself seen?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter was very dynamic so this one is a little more slow-paced. I hope it clarifies why Hannibal was so hurt by Will's actions and decided to leave him. Enjoy!

Some days, there’s anger. 

Anger at the Chesapeake Ripper who manipulated Will into helping him escape from prison, treated his life as nothing but a bargaining chip, and discarded him once he had served his purpose. The anger Will feels about being tricked and used by Hannibal Lecter is an easy enough feeling to hold onto, an easy enough story to tell, an easy enough facade to maintain.

Will doesn’t mean to lie about what really happened when he and Hannibal went their separate ways, when Hannibal _left_ him. It just happens. When he is found on the deserted beach, a miserable, shivering mess on the ground, everybody assumes that his borderline catatonic state is due to his physical injuries, not his broken heart. Molly and Walter arrive to see him at the hospital sooner than Will hoped for, so he has to keep playing the loyal husband and step-father. Until his critical condition improves, at least. 

But even after being discharged, Will can’t bring himself to tell anyone what really happened. Not even Molly. Everyone treats him as just another victim of the Chesapeake Ripper, and Will lets them, for lack of a better role to play. Jack strongly suspects that Hannibal will return to finish what he started with Will’s family, this time without a proxy killer, so they get ushered into the witness protection scheme. Will doesn’t particularly like the new name and identity he’s been given, nor the new house in Nebraska, but he doesn’t particularly like his new life as a whole either. So, none of the details matter. 

Because of that, Will focuses on his anger. Because it’s easier to be furious than heartbroken. Because it’s easier to blame Hannibal for everything that he put Will through, than to admit that Will himself was an equally powerful force driving their unhinged relationship towards imminent disaster. Because it’s easier to channel his rage into annihilating the targets at the local shooting range than to drown his sadness in cheap whiskey. The physical exertion makes his injured shoulder hurt, but the muscular pain is infinitely more tolerable than the emotional pain, so Will doesn’t mind. 

The anger at being mistreated so horribly by Hannibal burns inside him like hellfire; the wrathful flames fueling him to keep on living the so-called normal life out of spite. But no fire can burn forever. Especially not one that’s only been lit to deter everyone - and himself - from getting too close to his aching heart. 

Some days, there’s self-loathing. 

Will has never been weak. His far-from-ideal childhood, the atrocities seen as a New Orleans cop and a FBI profiler at Quantico, being shot and stabbed multiple times, enduring jail, losing people he cared about, and everything else Hannibal has put him through, have made him a hardened man. A man who doesn’t break under pressure and can push his body and mind to almost superhuman extents, if he has to. 

Because of that, emotions like self-pity aren’t something Will has allowed himself to experience in years. He’s never been one to wallow in feeling humiliated or wronged, instead always focusing on moving forward, putting one foot in front of the other, reminding himself that there’s always another life to save, another killer to catch.

But with Hannibal gone, the world has gone into a standstill. Will had caught the most dangerous killer of them all, the one he desired most, and held him tightly in his arms, only to let him leave. He’d caught Hannibal by the heart, and he’d let him go. Will hates himself for that, for being a stubborn idiot who refused to give Hannibal his heart in return, before it was too late. 

Hannibal is a man who’s one of a kind, so naturally, his love is one of a kind too. It’s not the simple traditional kind of love where mistakes can be fixed by kisses and apologies. Will feels foolish for ever assuming it would be, for ever assuming that Hannibal would want to kiss him and run off into the sunset together.

Hannibal’s love is a vicious cycle, Will should have known. He should’ve run the moment he realised what kind of monstrous, abominable man Hannibal is - the moment he learned Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper. But Will didn’t run. So, Hannibal killed people that Will cared about and pinned several murders on him. 

And Will came back to him.

Only for Hannibal to kill Abigail in front of him and leave him, Jack and Alana bleeding to death.

And still, Will came back to him.

Only to nearly have his skull cut open, while still alive and conscious.

And after that time, Will didn’t come back to him.

Even though he wanted to, every day during those three long years. He thought he broke the cycle then, but instead he ended up tightening it even further. 

Will pities himself for being so naive. For being unable to break free from Hannibal’s grasp despite ending up hurt again and again. For thinking that if he finally stopped fighting, accepted the truth about his feelings, and welcomed Hannibal with open arms, Hannibal would take him back. There is only one thing worse than selling one’s soul to the devil, and that is willingly gifting one’s heart to a cannibalistic serial killer. 

Will _loathes_ himself for hiding that fact, for lying to everyone about his true feelings for Hannibal. When Molly notices that his wedding ring is missing, Will fabricates a story about how it must have slipped from his finger when he was buried deep underwater, fighting his way to the surface of the Atlantic. Molly doesn’t look convinced, but doesn’t challenge him. Will loathes himself even more, because he can’t summon up the willpower to care either way.

Some days there is anger. Some days there is self-pity. 

And every day, there’s longing. 

Will feels a bottomless ache every time something reminds him of the life he used to have, every time he hears anything about Virginia or Baltimore. That soul-crushing ache is even stronger every time he looks up at the sky, wondering if Hannibal is looking at it too, wherever he is. Will wonders if the stars that they’re both seeing are the same. 

Every day, he feels deep yearning in his bones, drenching them in cold and emptiness. He takes hot showers, hoping the warm water will fill the hole in his chest, soothe his sore body, scorch away the memories of the man he wants to forget. When Will stands there under the hot spray, becoming one with the water, he allows his tears to fall. Because it’s the only place where he can pretend he doesn’t cry, telling himself that he can’t distinguish between the stream from his eyes and the stream from the showerhead. 

When Will finishes washing away his misery, he steps out of the shower, purposefully not looking at the scars decorating his body. They’re painful reminders of his history, who he really is, and what he could’ve had if he hadn’t been so stupid. Will gets dressed, combs his damp curls over the knife marks on his cheek and forehead - _because god, he hates remembering his past_ -, places a smile on his face, and walks out looking as if nothing is wrong. 

Some days, the shower isn’t enough. 

When Molly and Walter are out for the day, Will cries into an empty glass. He mixes the tears with subpar scotch, and gulps them back down into the depths of his stomach, where they belong. 

***

Paris looks peaceful and elegant as ever. The city has always had an air of sophistication and grace about it, which Hannibal loves. He likes to think of France, as well as Italy, as the sources of his love for luxury and art. In times when the usual tranquility of his mind is riddled with uncertainty and unpleasant emotions, Hannibal finds himself going back to the places that shaped him into who he is now. Last time, he settled in Florence with Bedelia. This time, it’s an idyllic apartment in Montmartre, the heart of Paris, with Chiyoh.

Now that they’re both free from their respective imprisonment, he wants to show her the world. It’s the least Hannibal can do to thank Chiyoh for treating his abdominal gunshot wound and other injuries inflicted by the Red Dragon, ultimately saving him from a miserable demise. She deserves the world for her undying loyalty, and Hannibal is going to give it to her, one city at a time. 

Although he feels content and at ease travelling with Chiyoh, Hannibal can’t help thinking of the specific companion he was hoping to have with him in both Florence and Paris.

“He’s on your mind, isn’t he?” Chiyoh asks, leaning over the wall of the Pont Alexander III bridge, the wind blowing her dark hair onto her face. 

Hannibal lets his gaze wander from the tourist boats gliding along the Seine river, across the ornate Parisian cityscape, to the grey triangular tower - the symbol of the city - standing proud in the distance. He then turns to look at Chiyoh, wincing at the dull pain echoing through his mostly-healed abdomen when he twists his upper body around. 

“In Paris, the city of love, how could I think of anyone else?” he responds. The serene and unbothered expression on his face is betrayed by the sharp edge in his voice.

It’s no wonder Paris is associated with romance - the picturesque buildings, charming people and the everlasting blissful atmosphere make the place seem like an utopian fairytale. It’s the kind of fairytale that should be shared with another person, the object of one’s heart’s desire. Though, right now, to Hannibal, the city feels like anything but romantic. He’d rather describe it as a post-apocalyptic dystopian world, where one can still feel love, but never without a sting of tremendous pain and loss accompanying it. 

“When I met him in Europe, I told him that there are other means of influence than violence,” Chiyoh says pensively. 

She knows Hannibal well enough to delicately acknowledge his anguish, but not to twist the knife in his metaphorical heart wound. Hannibal is grateful for that. 

“It seems that in the end, he understood what you meant by that.” 

Hannibal enjoys his newly-acquired freedom and makes sure to cherish it to the fullest. Every night, he steps out to the balcony of the apartment, to relish in the fresh cool breeze on his face and marvel at the bright stars above him in the dark sky. He wonders if Will ever looks at the sky and sees the same constellations, if he appreciates them the same way Hannibal does. Although it’s wonderful not to be confined to a cell anymore, this isn’t exactly how Hannibal had hoped to have attained his freedom. 

He gave up his freedom willingly, on his own terms. He gave up everything for Will, let himself be caged, committed himself to waiting for Will to come back to him. Although he could’ve broken out at any time, he hoped he would receive the freedom back on Will’s terms, not his own.

But Will didn’t want Hannibal to be free. 

Instead, Will got married and moved away, pretending to have a normal life, pretending that everything that happened between him and Hannibal wasn’t real. Will never visited, not once in the three years Hannibal spent at the Baltimore State Hospital.

It wasn’t the cell that kept him imprisoned all those years. It was Will’s rejection. 

Will could’ve visited just once and simply given Hannibal a time and a place, and Hannibal would’ve met him there, regardless of how many locks he’d have to break and how many people he’d have to kill. But Will never came to see him. 

He didn’t visit until he needed to use Hannibal as a bait for another killer. As great as it felt to finally see Will, Hannibal hated every second of it. He despised what Will had become; a corporate sycophant, the FBI’s gigolo. So, of course Hannibal played along and gave them the Red Dragon’s dead body like they wanted, before switching to his own agenda. The agenda that involved cutting Will Graham out of his life, for good. 

Hannibal reconsidered his decision for a moment at the cliff house, drenched in blood that looked black in the moonlight. He felt victorious, and not just because of defeating the Dragon. He felt victorious because he was free and reunited with Will, and Will reciprocated his triumph. Hannibal had allowed himself a second of happiness then, in that beautiful moment where he felt Will fall into his embrace. Hannibal had never felt such profound elation before.

Until Will pushed them over the edge. 

That was when Hannibal realised what Will’s choice really had been all this time. He realised with a bitter sting that Will would rather kill them both than allow them to be together. Will never wanted to share a victory with him, or to share a life, share a future. In fact, Will did nothing when Hannibal collapsed on the floor after being shot by the Dragon, just watched dispassionately while sipping his wine. Now, Hannibal knows why. Will was secretly relieved, pleased even, that Dolarhyde helped him bring Hannibal closer to death, which was exactly how Will had intended that evening to end, one way or another. 

The sharp sound of wood breaking pulls Hannibal out of his nightmarish reverie. He looks down to find one of his drawing pencils in his hands, now snapped in half. Hannibal hums in amusement at the discovery of his subconscious act of cruelty, and discards the pencil with the same indifference as he would discard a redundant person after snapping their neck. 

Hannibal has always been extremely attuned to his inner world, always paying attention to his instincts, intuition, and impulses, and what they mean. He interprets the impulse to break his pencil as a clear sign for something bigger brewing in the depths of his bloodthirsty subconscious. Hannibal considers it to be a message from his dark nature, a calling to make the kind of grotesque art that he’s been widely recognised - and prosecuted - for. He retreats back inside, smiling as the new design forms in his mind.

“Something has lifted your spirits,” Chiyoh observes from where she’s sitting on the couch, sipping green tea. 

“I’ve been visited by a muse,” Hannibal responds, eyes twinkling, like an artist who has suddenly been inspired to create a masterpiece, “Are you familiar with the tale of Achilles and Patroclus?”

“Yes, Lady Murasaki read it to me.”

Hannibal nods in contentment, pleased that Chiyoh would understand the intricacies of the design he was going to reveal to her. She doesn’t share his appetite for killing, and never will, but she would never try to restrain it either. 

“If I were to describe my relationship with Will Graham, I’d speak in quotes from the Iliad.”

“Much like Achilles’s story, your relationship with your _nakama_ had a tragic end too,” Chiyoh agrees. 

“I once visited the Scottish National Gallery in Edinburgh and was captivated by a magnificent painting displayed there, ‘ _Achilles lamenting the death of Patroclus_ ’,” Hannibal tells her. “This painting has now inspired me to create an art piece of my own.” 

Chiyoh takes a moment to digest the information. In times like this, Hannibal is immensely appreciative of having a companion like her; intelligent, well-versed in classic art and literature, and somebody who knows Hannibal deeply. 

“You want to communicate with him, to write him a letter, of sorts,” Chiyoh deduces.

A letter indeed; his victims’ cold pale skin like paper, his blade like a pen with blood-red ink, pouring his soul out onto the blank human canvases. 

“Yes.”

“Like Achilles, your heart is aching due to the loss of your beloved. Though, unlike Patroclus, he is still alive,” Chiyoh contemplates, voicing her interpretation regarding the title of the painting. 

When Hannibal speaks, there’s a bitter edge in his voice.

“I want him to know that he is as good as dead to me.”

*** 

When Will sees a familiar number light up his phone screen, he almost can’t believe his eyes. Jack shouldn’t call him, _cannot_ call him. Being in witness protection means they can’t have contact with anyone from their previous lives, and Jack knows this, being the one who insisted that they join the program. Hell, he shouldn’t even have Will’s new number - and he wouldn’t, if Will hadn’t slipped a hastily handwritten note into Jack’s coat pocket before saying goodbye. 

Will quickly gets on his feet and steps out into the spacious backyard of his house, to ensure he won’t be heard by Molly in the living room. 

“Hi, Jack.” 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Barkley,” comes Jack’s voice, stumbling awkwardly around Will’s new surname.

“Jack, for the love of God, drop it,” Will groans, sounding more fond than annoyed. 

He finds it rather comical that Jack chose to disregard all rules of witness protection and call him, but for some reason didn’t disregard Will’s new name when addressing him. Nevertheless, it feels good to hear Jack’s voice. 

“Fine. How are you doing, _Will_?” Jack chuckles in return. 

Will’s mouth stretches into a warm smile, and a small laughter erupts from his chest, sounding almost foreign coming from him - that’s how little things he has to laugh about in this pathetic excuse of a new life. And even now, his heartfelt joy is extremely short-lived, considering that Will knows exactly why he’s receiving this call. 

“I’ve been… better. All things considered,” he responds vaguely, deciding to spare them both the pointless melancholic chat and go straight to the topic. “But that’s not why you called.” 

“No, it’s not,” Jack agrees with a dreary sigh. 

They both know that there is only one reason Jack would call, only one reason they agreed the privacy arrangement could be broken for. 

“What did he do?” Will asks. 

There’s no need for specifics, or to name the man Will is talking about. Names are personal, too personal. The only reason Will wants to be notified about updates regarding Hannibal or his whereabouts is so he could be prepared and ensure his family is safe this time. That’s the reason as far as Jack is concerned, at least. 

“We have another body. Well, bodies…” Jack begins. “In Paris,” he adds quickly, to reassure Will that America’s most wanted serial killer hasn’t yet made his way back to the country.

Will bites his lip. The display Hannibal left behind on another continent must have been extraordinarily grotesque, otherwise the FBI wouldn’t have cared about it.

“How do you know it was him?” 

“There’s signature elements of il Mostro and the Chesapeake Ripper; he’s recreated a classic art piece. The entire painting this time, not just a segment like with Primavera. And there’s organs missing.”

Will nods. It does indeed sound like something Hannibal would do. But why, after months of nobody having a clue of where he’s hiding, would Hannibal suddenly make himself seen? Last time, while on the run in Europe, his first notable murder tableau was the human body folded into a heart in the Norman Chapel.

And he created it solely to leave a message for Will.

Will feels an eerie sensation creep up to his chest, like thorny vines winding around his ribcage and squeezing the air out of his lungs. Except instead of that, it feels more like a spark being ignited inside his chest. A dangerous spark that he knows he has to stifle immediately, before it gets a chance to grow into a steady fire and unfreeze his calloused heart. 

“What’s the painting of?” Will asks, working hard to keep his tone matter-of-factly. 

“Greek gods. Achilles, Patroclus, some others.” 

Will recognises those names, hears them echo inside his head in Hannibal’s uniquely accented voice. He remembers, clear as day, that evening in the psychiatrist’s office, where Hannibal likened their relationship to that between Achilles and Patroclus. 

Judging by the indifference in Jack’s voice, the choice of painting doesn’t mean anything to him. While to Will, it means everything. 

He needs to see it.

“I want to see. Photos from the scene, reports, anything,” Will says enthusiastically, but not _too_ enthusiastically. 

“You can’t,” Jack objects bluntly, curbing Will’s rising eagerness. “It would ruin the entire scheme we’ve set up to protect you and your family. If anyone even hears I told you about this, I’ll have to answer to the higher-ups. And they won’t be happy.”

“To hell with the scheme. I’m coming to Quantico.” 

“Will…” Jack protests on the other end, though, with not as much conviction as Will expected. 

He can picture Jack’s brown eyes looking at him with disapproval, skeptical of Will’s motivations for returning into the world of violence and murder, the world of the Chesapeake Ripper. Especially after the last time that left him almost dead and with permanent scars. Perhaps, Will’s decision to push the Ripper off the cliff and into certain death convinced Jack that Will isn’t interested in running away with him, like he wanted to before. 

And Will is smart enough to use that misconception to his advantage. He tells a careful lie, the one that’s exactly what Jack wants to hear, exactly what’s going to convince him he’s done the right thing by calling Will: 

“It’s the only way to catch him.”


	3. Anger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay those who wished Will would let Molly and Walter go, you're probably gonna like this chapter!
> 
> And this is the [painting](https://www.nationalgalleries.org/sites/default/files/styles/thumbnail/public/externals/41768.jpg?itok=A3crKX0y) Hannibal recreates in this chapter, to help you visualise it.

The murder tableau looks breathtaking in all its gruesomeness, every detail of it exuding Hannibal’s grotesque but artistic style. 

The bodies were found in the Luxembourg Gardens, arranged to be a real-life replica of Gavin Hamilton’s renowned painting, _‘Achilles lamenting the death of Patroclus_ ’. Seven victims have been meticulously groomed and dressed to look like the main characters from the artwork. In the middle there is golden-haired Achilles, with his arm draped around Patroclus, who is lying beneath him, his skin pale and cold. Around them are two men and three women, their faces stricken with compassion for Achilles’s grief. 

Although Will can only see it from the photos, the chilling display makes the entire world around him stop and fade away. The walls of the FBI Academy dissolve, the pristine furniture of Jack’s office disappears from view, and so does the man’s expectant stare. All Will can see in his mind is him and Hannibal, separated by the arrangement of dead bodies, with a message hidden somewhere in there. A message that’s designed specifically and solely for Will. 

Will understands it, of course. 

And once he does, it hits him like a stake right through his heart - an impact infinitely more painful than the blade Hannibal sank into his abdomen all those years ago. The physical stabbing had been a manifestation of Hannibal’s forgiveness, whereas this metaphorical heart wound is a manifestation of the complete opposite.

Unforgiveness. 

Rejection. 

The end. 

Just like Achilles laments the death of Patroclus, knowing there is nothing that can bring him back, Hannibal mourns the loss of Will, knowing there is nothing Will can do for Hannibal to take him back. 

Suddenly Will wishes he never stepped foot into Jack’s office, never looked at the photos from the crime scene, never answered that godforsaken phone call, _never surrendered to the temptation to find Hannibal again_. He would’ve been better off not knowing that Hannibal had killed again, and why he did it.

Will would’ve been better off living his blissfully ignorant life in the town he hated, in his suffocating little house, with his family that never felt like real family, and with a shiny new name to his old battle-scarred face. Because even with the completely remodelled identity and a completely remodelled life, he is still the same broken man, with the same longing and heartache. He can pretend he is angry or that he doesn’t care, but none of it distracts him from the fact that he is hurting all over.

Just like Will was foolish to think that Hannibal would kiss him after their triumphant victory at the cliff house, he is foolish to think that Hannibal would be in his life forever, in one way or another. 

He and Hannibal are conjoined, their selves inseparably blurred, two sides of the same coin. One can’t exist without the other. That’s how Will always imagined it. 

They wouldn’t be the human embodiment of love and domesticity, partners in sickness and in health, living happily ever after, no. Will isn’t delusional and love-sick enough to think they would grow old together like a normal happy couple. For them, being together would mean being in a vicious and destructive cycle with constantly flipping roles; predator and prey, guard and prisoner. There would be endless mutually-caused pain, ripping of bodies and bruising of minds, running away while simultaneously running towards each other. 

Will wouldn’t mind the pain, if it means he’d be hurt by Hannibal, because of Hannibal, for Hannibal. Not by the _absence_ of Hannibal. 

Never, not for a single moment, did Will picture them not existing in each other’s lives. 

He feels nauseated, as if the bottomless anguish in his chest wants to be purged out of his body and spill out onto the floor of Jack’s office. If only it was that easy to get rid of the torturous hurricane of emotions inside him. Will feels a surge of stomach acid rise up his throat and swallows it back down, gripping the edge of the table and pinching his eyes shut in a feeble attempt to ground himself. 

“Will?” 

Jack’s voice brings him back into the present moment. Will opens his eyes to find the man looking at him expectantly, demanding answers; an utilisation of his empathy, a reconstruction of Hannibal’s thinking, an analysis of his motivations. 

“What do you see?” Jack queries. 

Will shakes off the devastating typhoon of emotions that is threatening to drown him, and puts on his mask of clinical detachment instead; looking at the crime scene through the eyes of an FBI profiler who is able to break into killers’ minds like a lock-picker, rather than a shattered man yearning for someone he can never have. 

“He chose to recreate a painting that depicts great grief. It must mean something,” Will begins vaguely.

He chooses his words carefully to create the impression that he is providing something substantial, but keeping the specific meaning of Hannibal’s tableau to himself. Will knows that no one else is aware that Achilles and Patroclus’s relationship has personal significance to him and Hannibal. And he isn’t going to let that little precious piece of information be discovered. 

“What is he so sad about?” Jack questions in a gruff tone, mocking Hannibal’s agony. 

“I don’t know.” 

The words roll off Will’s tongue without a conscious thought. He does know the reason for Hannibal’s misery, he’s painfully, _excruciatingly_ aware of it. What Will doesn’t know, though, is why he’s hiding the real message behind Hannibal’s murders from Jack and everyone else. Why is he choosing to remain loyal to the man that doesn’t want anything to do with him? In his mind, Will pretends he doesn’t know the answer to those questions, but in his heart… In his heart, Will is doomed, damned and condemned to the deepest ring of hell, for being tempted by the devious snake and taking a bite of the forbidden fruit. 

“Don’t you?” he hears Jack challenge his words, “because we do.” 

Jack’s inquisitive eyes are drilling into Will, unsatisfied by his nondescript response. Will dodges the eye contact and sighs. 

“I looked through his sketchbooks once he escaped,” comes a familiar smooth voice from behind Will.

He turns on his heels to find Alana leaning on the wall next to the door. He must’ve been so preoccupied with his thoughts that he didn’t realise she’d entered the room. 

It’s good to see Alana. Though their relationship has long ago lost that romantic spark and genuine warmth, and now resembles strictly professional relations - thanks to Hannibal’s insidious influence over the years -, it’s still good to see her. Will opens his mouth to greet her, but she continues to speak before he can get any words out. 

“They’re full of drawings of you, Will. Hundreds of sketches of you. Different poses, different angles. Saying that he’s obsessed would be an understatement.”

Will can’t say he’s surprised. When he visited Hannibal in the BSHCI, he saw a glimpse of a sketch that looked awfully like him - a memory he’d chosen to bury into the depths of his mind, never to be rediscovered. But now, it’s back at the forefront of his brain, vivid as ever.

It’s a drawing of Will, unclothed, exactly like he exists in Hannibal’s mind; completely bare, stripped of his armor, every facet of his mind and every curve of his body fully seen and mapped out. It’s another agonising reminder of how thoroughly Hannibal knows him, how he’s familiar with every thought running through Will’s head and every emotion crawling underneath his skin.

“A sick obsession,” Jack mumbles with disgust. 

Will doesn’t respond. With an unpleasant, sour taste in his mouth, he realises that what Jack and Alana are saying about Hannibal could also be said about him. Will is obsessed, too. He’s itching to know Hannibal completely, to lay him out completely exposed, just like he’s done with Will; from the skin to the bone, from his eyes to the very core of his soul. And instead of that, all Will has is the ghost of the man; he’s stuck pointlessly chasing afterimages, grasping at the shadows to no avail.

“An obsession he managed to cut out,” Will spits out eventually, every syllable laced with bitterness. 

Jack hums pensively. Hannibal’s decision to leave Will behind had come as a surprise to him too, much like it did to Will. 

“I thought he’d want to run away with you. And I suspected that you wanted to, too.” 

Will narrows his eyes without meaning to. _That’s why you had the boats waiting for us at the sea, in case we had a water escape route planned,_ he concludes angrily inside his head. 

“You saw what happened after we killed the Dragon. He wasn’t planning on running away with me. He just used me for his own escape,” Will points out resentfully, deliberately avoiding commenting on Jack’s speculations regarding his own motivations. 

“Why send us this message then?” Alana asks. 

A silence falls in the room, as Will struggles to find the right words to say. That typhoon of emotions is slowly breaking out of its restraints and flooding his mind once again. 

“It’s a goodbye,” is all he manages to sound out. 

Will’s words are barely audible in the silent room, echoing off the walls and stumbling around the corners, shattering like the teacup in the metaphor that Hannibal loved to use. Except this time, there’s no one to put the broken pieces back together. 

***

Back in Nebraska, it seems like nothing changed while Will was in Virginia, following the blood trail of the man he thought he left behind, chasing in vain the ghosts of his past. There are bright orange flames in the fireplace, the dinner is on the table, Will is greeted with a hug from Walter and enthusiastic licks from the dogs. Molly smiles and kisses him on the cheek, not the lips; it’s hardly intimate but instead perfectly domestic - Will doesn’t think anything of it at first. 

Until he brings up that he’s been asked to go back to Quantico for a few weeks. He tells Molly that he agreed to help Jack reconstruct Hannibal’s murder tableau in detail in hopes of catching him. Will is sure his wife and stepson would understand, but he still poses it as a tentative question rather than the pre-decided statement that it is in his mind. 

“You should go,” Molly says, her voice devoid of the usual sweetness. Walter is sound asleep, and they’re now sitting by the fireplace, enjoying the warmth it emits. 

“You think so? Last time I tried getting close to Hannibal it ended like this,” Will laughs bitterly, pointing at his cheek wound, still pink and gnarly-looking, even after months. 

“No, you should _go_ ,” Molly repeats, this time emphasising the last word. “And not come back.”

Will freezes in his tracks, his cynical smile quickly fading as the realisation hits him. 

“Molly…” 

“I’m not stupid, Will. Your story may fool the FBI but not me,” her voice is gentle despite the harsh truth it’s carrying. “You’re not trying to find him to catch him, you’re trying to find him so you can stay with him.”

“I’m sorry,” Will says quietly. Because there’s nothing else to say. He knows Molly is right. 

“Are you going to tell me the truth about the ring, or let me draw my own conclusions about that too?”

“Your conclusion is most likely right,” Will admits, averting his eyes from her accusatory stare. 

She gives him a sour-tasting laugh in response and stalks to the liquor shelf, pouring herself a rather unhealthy serving of wine. 

“You know, I always thought it’d hurt more. But somehow, it doesn’t,” she speaks, flopping onto the armchair on the other side of the room, instead of returning back to where she was sitting next to Will on the couch, the emotional distance between them now made physical. “Maybe because I knew this would happen sooner or later.”

Will doesn’t know how to respond. Instead, he just looks at Molly with anguished, apologetic eyes. 

“I knew I’d never find real everlasting love, so I just settled for someone to save me from loneliness. Like a bandaid,” Molly continues after gulping down half of her wine at once. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you needed me to be,” Will says eventually, eyes stuck to the floor, still not having enough backbone to face her. 

Molly sighs.

“I should’ve expected it. Bandaids aren't meant to be worn forever.”

Will suddenly wishes he had a drink, or twenty. Or those wonderful pills his doctor prescribed as pain relief for his injuries. Combined, the alcohol and the analgesic drugs would hopefully be enough to numb his body and envelope his brain in heavenly unconsciousness. Like Molly said, this doesn’t hurt as much as it should’ve, and Will doesn’t know what to do with that realisation. He should care; he should be shocked and distraught, he should feel guilty for lying to her, he should fight for her forgiveness and try his hardest to make amends. But instead, Will just wishes he had a drink. 

When he imagined the possibility of him and Molly ending things, he didn’t picture it unfolding like this. Will thought there would be tears and yelling, or earth-shattering arguments and mutual heartbreak. Perhaps, it would be Molly telling him that she has fallen in love with someone worthy of her devotion, a truly good man, like she deserves. Or perhaps, it would be Will telling her that he’d already given his heart to someone before he even met her, to a remorseless monster of a man, who tore it to shreds. 

But there is no crying, and neither of them even raised their voice. 

“I’ll be out before tomorrow night,” Will speaks with an exhausted sigh. 

Molly nods. “As you should.”

***

They find nothing. The Parisian law enforcement gladly lets the FBI take the case, and provides them with all the information they need since they’re based on another continent. They thoroughly examine every detail of the Hannibal’s murder tableau, learn everything about the victims, and eventually discover the apartment Hannibal and Chiyoh stayed in. Of course, it’s now empty. Despite all their rigorous investigation, they find nothing of real value. Nothing indicating where Hannibal is now. It’s a dead end; no evidence, no clues, no direction. They have nothing. 

Will has nothing. 

And he has no one. 

Hannibal is gone, and so is Molly now. There is nothing left of either of those two people that Will could imagine a future with. And he knows that only one of those broken relationships can be salvaged. Or maybe, there’s only one that he _wants_ to salvage. 

Will has nothing. Which means he’s got nothing to lose. 

Now that there isn’t anything else to investigate about the case, the FBI is expecting him to go back home to Nebraska. And Molly is expecting him to go anywhere but home. So, to defy both expectations, acting out of spite more than anything else, Will does neither. 

Instead, he disappears.

Will is tired of maintaining appearances, of lying to Molly and the FBI, of pretending to despise Hannibal rather than despise _being away_ from Hannibal. He doesn’t even know why he kept doing it for so long. Perhaps, he believed that time would heal his wounds, that the ‘fake it til you make it’ mantra is true, that if he told himself enough times that he doesn’t want or need Hannibal, it would somehow magically become real. But sadly, Will doesn’t believe in magic. 

He fooled everyone, and even himself at times, with his act of being the Chesapeake Ripper’s victim, someone who would never want to see the man again. But no matter how much Will tries, he can’t fool the thin black folder he keeps in his closet, tucked between his folded clothes, carefully hidden away from prying eyes. Even during the times when he genuinely believed he would grow old with Molly and be a good father to Walter, that black folder was always in the back of his mind. 

It’s like one of those things you prepare for an emergency, but hope to never have to use. Like the bag of necessities people keep in their house if they live in an area prone to natural disasters, ready to evacuate with no notice. Like the loaded gun police officers keep in their bedside draw, in fear of having angered the wrong criminals. Like something that allows people to spring into action when there is no time to think or prepare. That’s what the black folder is for, and Will hates the fact that he made it, hates knowing that one day he’s inevitably going to use it. 

How could Will have resisted? He watched the entire process of being issued a new identity by the government, memorised all the necessary steps of making his old self disappear. Passport, driving licence, birth certificate, medical records, bank accounts - the list of documents that need to be replaced is limitless, but so is Will’s memory. In fact, his memory is so flawless that even after years, he can recall the name of the identity forger whom his police precinct in New Orleans tried to catch, without success. So, while the government creates new official identity documents for him, Will gets another set of fraudulent ones made on the side, slips them into the black folder and hides it away, ready to be used when the day imminently arrives. 

In the grand scheme of things, Will has committed crimes worse than commissioning a document counterfeiter, so he isn’t afraid of straying off the legal path, nor does his conscience object. Those were the characteristics of Will Graham, who died the moment he plummeted into the depths of the Atlantic ocean. He isn’t Will Graham anymore, nor is he Clancy Barkley that lives in Nebraska with his wife and son, nor is he anyone else. He is a man that wears many faces and many names, all equally irrelevant. A man who finally releases the dark, carnal craving that’s been hiding in his chest and allows himself to be transformed into someone completely different, unrecognisable to anyone he previously knew. There would be only one person left in the world who could recognise Will, because of that same bloodthirsty craving the two of them share. 

And Will is going to attain that recognition, whatever it takes. 

He fishes out his counterfeit passport from the black folder, and huffs incredulously at yet another fake name printed next to his photo. He chose the first name Patrick because it’s plain and common. He can easily pass himself off as a Patrick; a boring American, with his average height and weight, ordinary mop of brown hair and wrinkled flannel shirts, seamlessly blending into the sea of other boring Americans, other Patricks, Jameses, Michaels and Johns. Will tells himself he chose Patrick purely for these practical purposes. Definitely not because the name reminds him of Patroclus - another frail connection he has tried to draw to what he once had and didn’t cherish, until it was too late.

With a few clicks on his laptop, Will books Patrick Woodmere a flight to Glasgow. 

He has researched the artwork Hannibal drew inspiration from, so he knows it’s displayed in the Scottish National Gallery in Edinburgh. Glasgow is far enough from Edinburgh to avoid suspicion, in case the authorities are somehow tracking him and expect him to go directly where the painting is located. Besides, Glasgow is more populated and therefore more likely to provide exactly what Will needs for the plan that is rapidly forming in his head. And after Will has found what he needs - or rather whom he needs - Edinburgh is just a short drive away.

Hannibal had left Will a gift in Paris, a heart-wrenching and cruel one, but a gift nonetheless. He let Will _see him_ once again, and Will is determined to tell Hannibal that the gift has been received. And what would be a more perfect metaphor for seeing Hannibal’s murder tableau than going to the National Gallery, the place where one can see the actual painting? 

Though, simply visiting the gallery won’t be enough. Will knows that he won’t find Hannibal there, smiling serenely while reproducing the artwork in front of him into his sketchbook, like Will found him in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. This time, Hannibal won’t be there waiting for him. Why would he? He’s said what he wanted to say to Will, written his rejection letter in flesh and blood, and he isn’t coming back.

So, Will has no other choice but to write Hannibal a letter in response; announce that he has received Hannibal’s message, in a language Hannibal can understand. The _only_ language Hannibal understands, as it seems to Will. 

***

Glasgow is a sea of ochre-gold buildings and grey weather. It’s busy and crowded enough to be a suitable place for someone who likes to kill, abuse and violate others without worrying about being caught, because there isn’t enough police to deal with the overwhelming amount of murder and assault happening every day. Will is sure he is going to find someone like that in this city, someone who’s got blood on his hands. 

Will has blood on his hands too, but only the blood of serial killers: Hobbs, Tier and Dolarhyde. If anything, he did the world a favour by sending those men to the land of the dead. It’d probably be overly ambitious to try to track down another serial killer to match the rest of Will’s body count, especially in the United Kingdom. He can’t even use his FBI connections to help with that, now that they’re buried together with his past identity of Will Graham.

Realistically, he’ll have to settle for someone that’s easier to find than a serial murderer. A sex offender, perhaps? There’s a lot more records of those kinds of crimes available publicly. Or, well, not publicly, but available nonetheless to those who know how to sweet-talk government clerks into giving him information, or how to pick a few locks. 

Will’s task of finding a despicable enough sex offender is complicated further by the fact that the man’s appearance is crucial for what Will has in mind. He doesn’t give up, though, and one day, it all finally comes together. The man Will finds is lean, medium-build, with cedar-brown hair and pale skin - awfully resemblant of Will himself.

It’s tragically poetic and oddly fitting, in a way, that Will has to face the idea of killing himself, in some form, once again. 

He set out to kill himself when he pushed himself and Hannibal off that cliff. He killed Will Graham when he agreed to take on a new identity and move to Nebraska. He killed the man that was Molly’s husband and Walter’s stepdad when he tossed his wedding ring into the sea. And most tragically, he killed who he truly was and everything he longed to be, when he rejected Hannibal after the events of Muskrat Farm.

So, to Will, killing a man that looks very much like himself shouldn’t feel all that new or difficult. 

This man is a horrible rapist, so there’s no conscience or guilt stopping Will from crossing his name off the books of the living. He’s killed before, and will undoubtedly have to keep killing, if he wants to be with Hannibal. Will knows cold-blooded murder is deemed unforgivable, but he also knows that he is going to have to redefine that notion; let go of the societal standards dictating that killing is bad, let go of his own hesitation regarding hurting another human being, and simply focus on the sole motivation driving him. He needs to get Hannibal’s attention, he needs to reunite with him, because they are one, conjoined, unable to survive separation. 

Killing is an interesting thing - an act that’s so ugly and abominable, but has the potential to be so beautiful at the same time. It makes Will feel powerful, glorious and deeply sated, in the way no food or other indulgences in life can satisfy him. This is the part of Will that craves Hannibal, that unique-shaped puzzle piece that fits with Hannibal like nobody else does. Will needs to be with him, whatever it takes. Or _whoever_ it takes. 

He’d considered using his gun for this as it would be easy and convenient, but unfortunately, there was no way he could get the weapon through the airport security and into Scotland. Though, maybe, it was a blessing in disguise, since Hannibal doesn’t seem to be fond of firearms. Will is creating this tableau specifically to appease Hannibal, so little details like that are going to matter. He settles for a simple clip point folding knife, which is easy enough to purchase with a wad of British pounds, to avoid leaving a digital trail. 

The night is cold and rainy when Will ambushes his target in a dead-quiet suburban alley and stabs him with a singular but precise strike into the abdomen. For a moment, it feels ecstatic and intoxicating, just like he felt after killing the Red Dragon. It’s wonderfully cathartic to finally unleash all the anger and frustration, and bask in the hedonistic urges he’s kept down for too long. 

Then, there’s the sight of the blade stuck all the way into the flesh, the sounds of the man’s choked whimpers, and the smell of visceral blood. And suddenly, it’s all too much. 

It’s all too close to what Will experienced himself when Hannibal gutted him, mercilessly leaving him to bleed out in agony. The sensations are too personal and bring up too many painful memories, too much hurt that Will thought he’d overcome long ago. And the fact that Will finds himself seeing it all through his victim’s eyes, even without using his empathy, almost makes him squeeze his eyes shut and stammer back with a silent scream. The blood, the pain, the utter shock and terror on the man’s face; it’s all so deeply overwhelming that Will almost abandons his project, tempted to run away and vow never to come back to this kind of life. The only thing that keeps him from running is the notion that this is what Hannibal would want. 

It feels personal because it’s meant to be. It hurts, because it’s meant to. 

It was Will’s own idea to stab the man in the stomach, so that the corpse would have a laceration similar to the scar Hannibal’s blade left on Will. It was Will’s own idea, his own design, and he’d have to see it through and face its consequences; deal with the demons from the past that it brought back. 

That’s why Will doesn’t run. He stays still and waits, until only his own breathing can be heard in the alley, calm and even. 

He takes the time to prepare the now-dead body according to his design, then takes the corpse to the Scottish National Gallery, to the very hall where ‘ _Achilles lamenting the death of Patroclus_ ’ is displayed. He positions the lifeless man in front of the artwork, lying on his back, as if he immediately collapsed at the sight of the painting - died of a broken heart, to be precise. 

The dead man is Will, with his pale skin and brown hair, with the stab wound in his abdomen, with another deep hole in his chest, his heart brutally carved out and destroyed. The display is a physical manifestation of how Will feels inside; cold and empty, unable to keep on living because he gave away his heart, the organ that kept him alive, and his devotion wasn’t reciprocated. 

It hurts, because it’s _meant to._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, I picked Woodmere as Will's last name because it's a suburb in New Orleans that I decided had personal significance to Will as a kid and that's why he chose it :)


	4. Bargaining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The roasted leg dish is garnished with ti plant leaves and various exotic flowers and fruits; Will’s best attempt at conveying a tropical theme. The vivid colours and flavours associated with the tropical nature are his way of representing the bright and joyous future that he and Hannibal have ahead. Judging by the way Hannibal is smiling radiantly at him from his place at the table, Will has met his expectations with this offering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will apologists rejoice! this is the last chapter of Hannibal being mean and Will being sad - the roles will flip around in the next chapter. 
> 
> I want to say a massive thank you to my wonderful friend and beta [Memequeen1127](https://archiveofourown.org/users/memequeen1127/pseuds/memequeen1127) whose idea it was to have the Bedelia's leg scene happen the way it does in this chapter.

Hannibal loves making art.

There’s soft classical music playing in the background, producing a peaceful atmosphere in his workspace. The orchestral symphony drowns out the sounds of bones breaking and tendons ripping as Hannibal creates another grotesque art piece.

He received the love letter Will left him in Scotland; the man with a stolen heart. It was a beautiful display, and Hannibal was impressed by the rawness and passion in the violence inflicted by Will’s hands. It was magnificent, but it wasn’t what Hannibal wanted. Unlike most people, Hannibal sees and appreciates the beauty in cruelty, which is the exact side of him that Will tried appealing to with his tableau. But Hannibal appreciates beauty in other things too, and more than anything, he wishes Will would understand that.

Despite the deep despondency that Will’s letter stirred in him, Hannibal feels that it’s considered polite form to respond. 

Each person he murders, each body he elevates to art, is important and unique. But the tableaux he creates for Will are a whole different level of special, stemming not from his clinical curiosity about the workings of the human body, but from the depths of his soul, fuelled by the profound, overbearing and undying love. 

Love.

Hannibal loves Will, and has loved him for a long time. He’s fought that love, loathed it, tried to run from it, tried to kill it - only for it to grow even stronger. He’s reciprocated it, fostered it, admitted it and accepted it - only for his vulnerability to get the best of him. 

Sometimes, Hannibal thinks that Will loves him too; every part of him, his vices and virtues, fully and entirely. In those moments of sweet delusion, Hannibal feels seen and cherished. Then, he remembers what Will really loves him for.

Will doesn’t love him for the _man_ that he is. He only loves him for the _monster_ that he is. 

And that’s what hurts. Hannibal let Will see every side of him: his sadistic and manipulative nature, his infatuated heart, and even his deeply pained soul that hides behind all the poise and composure. Will took only what he wanted - the dark, bloodthirsty part of Hannibal - and ran with it. Will doesn’t want Hannibal, he just wants anyone that would encourage, cultivate and match his hedonistic and violent desires. 

Hannibal gave him everything: his love, his fears, his weaknesses - his _humanity_. But Will didn’t want it. He flung it back at his face like a slap across the cheek. He treated Hannibal’s heart as a toy to play with, something to use, abuse, and discard at the end. 

Will is selfish in his desires and doesn’t truly care about him. He has proven it time after time. Hannibal let Will find him in Italy, and he did, only to sink a blade into him when they reunited at the Uffizi Gallery. Hannibal slaughtered all of Verger’s men at Muskrat Farm, alone, risking his life, just to rescue Will and take him to safety, and in return, Will told him that he never wanted to see him again. Hannibal waited for Will in a cell for three excruciatingly long years, and Will only visited when the FBI needed a live bait.

Will has proven again and again that he is a savage monster, the kind that knows Hannibal would lay down his life for him, and uses it to his advantage. The kind of monster that’s worse than anything Hannibal could ever be.

Hannibal is hurting. And he wants Will to hurt in the same way, too. 

He sighs and sets down his surgical instruments, pausing for a moment to appraise his finished display. He chose a victim that looks like him, to complement Will’s murder tableau in Scotland. The dead man’s grey-blond hair is meticulously parted and combed to the side. His chest cavity has been cut open and then stitched back together. In his outstretched hands, the man is holding his severed heart, like an offering. The message of Hannibal’s response letter is clear as day: 

_You told me I stole your heart. Here, have it back._

With a melancholic but determined expression on his face, Hannibal takes a few steps back to look at his creation from afar, as his mind takes him back to the conversation he had a few days ago. 

―

 _It’s a serene night in Yokohama, and Hannibal and Chiyoh decide to have dinner on the patio outside. Ever since the digestive issues caused by Dolarhyde’s bullet in his stomach, Hannibal has had to learn to appreciate quality over quantity when it comes to food; small delicacies instead of multi-course feasts. He has by no means turned_ vegetarian _, but introducing more fish and vegetables to his previously meat-heavy diet has been helpful to his squeamish stomach. Japan is a good place to be for that reason; the local cuisine is light and nutritious, with a great emphasis on aesthetics._

_“A freshly-prepared assortment of nigiri and sashimi, made with salmon toro, bluefin tuna, octopus, and butterflied shrimp,” Hannibal announces, placing a decadent-looking sushi platter in front of Chiyoh and himself. “Served with pickled ginger, to cleanse the palate after each different kind of sushi.”_

_Chiyoh smiles at him as she continues to be impressed by his cooking._

_“Do you wish to cleanse your palate after Will Graham?” she asks after a moment._

_Hannibal takes his time to respond. He had tried. He’d tried cleansing his palate of Will, tried erasing every sign of Will from his mind, body and soul, more than once. He’d tried to forcibly push Will away by giving him scars, mental and physical. It didn’t work. He’d tried to get away from Will by escaping to Europe and by putting himself behind bars. That didn’t work either._

_Hannibal knows there is nothing he can do to get rid of his feelings towards the man and go back to living in peace. And the worst part is that he doesn’t even want to._

_“No, not anymore,” he tells Chiyoh._

_No peace can be attained through the means of violence and pain. True love can’t be attained through those means either. Hannibal knows this, but he isn’t sure if Will does. He isn’t sure if Will sees him as a human, or as a beast that can never be tamed by gentleness, only beaten into submission._

_“Acceptance is the first step to happiness,” Chiyoh says, eliciting a pensive nod from Hannibal. “How was seeing oba-san?”_

_Another reason they’re staying in Japan is because Hannibal wanted to visit his aunt Murasaki. She is getting quite old, and he feared that she would pass away while he was incarcerated, and that he wouldn’t get another chance to see her before that._

_“Wonderful, as always,” Hannibal replies, “Every time I come to her with my troubled thoughts, she helps me attain clarity.”_

_“Did you tell her about your nakama?”_

_Chiyoh’s words are more of a statement than a question. She knows all too well what is troubling Hannibal’s mind. She knows how much he is aching for the man he lost, for the man he_ rejected _._

_“Yes.”_

_Chiyoh pops a sushi into her mouth and raises her eyebrows just a fraction, inviting Hannibal to elaborate._

_“I told her everything. She thinks that Will fully reciprocates my feelings towards him,” Hannibal says, his eyes lost in the small river flowing beside the patio, as if trying to find solace in it for his shattered heart. Or perhaps, wishing to drown it._

_“You don’t seem to believe that,” Chiyoh observes, watching him with her dark, inquisitive eyes. She steals a maguro sushi from the platter and dips it in her soy sauce bowl._

_“No.”_

_“He killed for you. And presented the body in such a way that tells you his heart belongs to you,” Chiyoh points out, confident that such an action is something that appeals to Hannibal’s tastes._

_And it does - seeing human bodies transformed into stunning displays delights Hannibal, but it isn’t what he wants from Will, isn’t what he_ aches _for._

_“No, all his tableau told me is that he can murder people and mutilate their corpses,” Hannibal corrects, “that’s not new to me.”_

_His voice is flat and disenchanted, like falling from heaven onto cold, hard ground. Will must have thought Hannibal wants a sadistic murderer as his companion, when in reality, he just wants Will._

_“Do you wish that he’d done something different to get your attention?” Chiyoh queries._

_“I already know that he is capable of extensive violence. I want to know if he’s capable of things other than that,” Hannibal explains._

_Namely, if Will is capable of loving Hannibal for everything that he is, not just for the bloodthirsty monster inside him._ _Will claims to know Hannibal better than anyone else. If that’s the case, how can he not see the very essence of what Hannibal wants? How can he not see that Hannibal wants a partner in life, not just a partner in crime?_

_The sushi turned out excellent, but Hannibal doesn’t have an appetite anymore. He eats anyway, only vaguely appreciating the flawless texture of the rice and the perfect mixture of flavours on his tongue. It tastes dull. Everything has been dull since he left Will, but Hannibal knew to expect it._

_What he didn’t expect is to realise that perhaps, the connection between them has always been dull. Perhaps, Hannibal has been seeing everything through rose-coloured glasses, when what they actually have is a blood-red-coloured reality._

_“I suppose he doesn’t realise that you yearn for companionship in the traditional sense, just like all other people.”_

_Chiyoh is right. Hannibal is made of flesh and bone, living and breathing like all humans, bleeding red like every mortal. He isn’t a god, nor is he the devil. Hannibal is a person and he loves like one, cries like one, and hurts like one. And if Will can’t see that, if he refuses to view Hannibal as anything other than a cold-blooded killing machine, he isn’t worthy of being Hannibal’s companion._

_“He doesn’t. He thinks that violence is the only language I understand.”_

_“Would you help correct his misconceptions about you?”_

_“I’m undecided on the matter,” Hannibal admits, absent-mindedly tugging on his bottom lip with his teeth and twirling a chopstick between his fingers. “My dear aunt thinks I should be more forthcoming in communicating what I want from him.”_

_Relationships are a two-way street, requiring mutual reciprocation and obligation. Hannibal knows it all, knows that if he returned to Will, spoke with him in a heart-to-heart, talked about their feelings, things would be a lot easier. But Hannibal has never been a man that prefers to have things easy._

_“What do you think I should do?” As much as Hannibal is sometimes inflexible and uncompromising in his ways, he is curious to hear Chiyoh’s opinion on the matter._

_“Oba-san is a wise woman,” she responds delicately, with a smile._

_Hannibal translates that to mean that he should take his aunt’s advice. In theory, it would be sensible - and maybe even romantic - for him to set aside his pride and stubbornness, and simply have an honest conversation with the man that his heart desires. But Hannibal is a connoisseur of the convoluted, an avid lover of saying things in roundabout ways, hiding his true thoughts and feelings behind symbolism and metaphors._

_He trusts that Will can determine how to earn back Hannibal’s love on his own, without assistance. Through the years, Hannibal has put Will through numerous tests, but this is the most crucial one. And if he gave Will hints regarding how to prove his devotion in the right ways, it would defeat the whole point of the test._

_Hannibal loves Will, but he needs confirmation that he is loved in return, fully and unconditionally, the man and the monster as one, for those two cannot be separated._

―

Hannibal opens his eyes, bringing his consciousness back to the murder tableau he’s preparing. He thought he had finished his work on the man holding the extracted heart, but now there is a small voice inside him, urging him to pick up the scalpel again. That voice comes from Hannibal’s chest, from the place where his blood-filled organ is pumping, and it desperately wishes, begs, _pleads_ for him to listen to his heart instead of his brain. Just this once. 

Maybe aunt Murasaki and Chiyoh are right, and he should listen to his heart. Love makes people weak and vulnerable, but maybe this time, it’s going to be his strength.

Hannibal would not leave Will a hint, but he can leave him hope. 

He grabs the corpse’s forearms and turns them so that the insides face up. They look so intact compared to Hannibal’s own, graced with scars from his wrists to the middle of his forearms; another reminder that Will only speaks with him in the language of violence. 

Quickly, before his rational brain can overpower his infatuated heart again, Hannibal takes the scalpel and carves two words into the dead man’s arms, mirroring the placement of the marks on his own skin. 

***

After pouring his heart out to Hannibal in Scotland, Will doesn’t know what to expect. Is Hannibal going to accept his love declaration, reunite with him and stay together forever like they were always meant to? Or is he going to keep believing that Will is dead to him, and never make contact again? Will doesn’t know. 

What he does know is that if there is ever a response from Hannibal of any kind, in any part of the world, he’s going to recognise it immediately. 

Eventually, a reply arrives all the way from Japan. It bursts in like a raging tornado, sucking Will into its vicious core and flinging him off this planet, past all layers of the atmosphere, into the dark cosmos. 

It hurts. It hurts with the intensity of a thousand burning suns, even though there is only one sun that Will cares about. And that sun is fading away, retracting his warm touch away from Will’s skin, replacing the bright shine of his eyes with ice. He is left alone in the pitch-black abyss, floating in the starless cosmos, amidst nothing. He can’t breathe, not because there’s no air in space, but because he has no reason to. Because the only sun that matters to Will has turned its back on him. 

He feels cold, and he feels numb. It would’ve hurt less if Hannibal had been angry, unleashed his heartbreak and fury in a form of another massacre. There would’ve been raw emotion for Will to latch onto, hold dearly against his chest and feel with every fibre of his body, for it would be the closest he could get to Hannibal. 

But there is nothing. No wrath, no sadness. Just dispassionate politeness and nonchalance. Just Hannibal returning Will’s heart, resigning from the lovers’ chase, unwilling to pursue him anymore. 

Until Will sees the blood-red inscription on the forearms of the dead body. 

_Tentant durius._

Will scrambles on his feet, scattering around the pile of photos from Hannibal’s crime scene that he’s been looking at. In a frantic frenzy, as if his life depends on it, he translates the words. 

_Try again._

And maybe, just maybe there is a little spark in his starless cosmos of despair now, shining in the darkness and guiding him to a space station or even a habitable planet. Hannibal has given him hope. Just because he seemingly quit trying to pursue Will, doesn’t mean that Will should stop chasing him. Will just needs to try again. Try better, try harder, try smarter. _Try until he succeeds_. Because a future without Hannibal is like space without oxygen - unable to sustain life. 

Will has hope, and with that, he has reignited the fire in his heart, regained strength in his bones, and refilled his lungs with the air of determination. Hannibal left him once already, bleeding on the floor of his kitchen. And Will succeeded in finding him in Italy by following the subtle clues Hannibal had given him during their sessions, framed as the descriptions of the foyer of his mind palace. 

Will can find Hannibal again. He can, and he will. There will be cleverly disguised clues, hidden hints that, once uncovered, would spell out how to get to Hannibal. Isn’t that what Will has trained for all his life - interpreting the evidence, decoding mysteries, solving crimes? He’d been chasing the Chesapeake Ripper before he even knew it was Hannibal. And now that Hannibal wants to be found, found specifically and solely by Will, Will is going to finally catch him. And when he does, he’s never going to let go. 

So, Will stops drinking and starts thinking. 

The scorching whiskey, his old friend, loyal bed partner and a less-than-ideal therapist, is now forgotten. Discarded along with the miserable man with a failed marriage and unrequited longing for his star-crossed lover. He brings back Will Graham, criminal profiler, the FBI’s finest, determined to seize the most elusive killer, capture the man of his dreams. 

Will peruses his immaculate memory, the library of all things he knows about Hannibal, the shared rooms of their mind palaces, to find anything that would point him in the right direction. He thinks about the first murder tableau Hannibal left him after their separation, the recreation of the painting of Achilles and Patroclus. Hannibal always loved Greek mythology, and frequently referenced the Iliad in his conversations with Will. One specific quote stands out, spoken by Hannibal years ago, but appearing fresh in Will’s memory as if it was just yesterday. 

_Achilles wished all Greeks would die, so that he and Patroclus could conquer Troy alone._

The more Will thinks about it, the more his mind fills with clarity. Puzzle pieces fall together to form a picture, illegible codes decipher themselves.

All Greeks must die, meaning everyone that ever stood in their way. Will slaying a plethora of unnamed people won’t impress Hannibal. What he wants is for Will to hunt down the ones that mean the most, the ones that took the most from them. All the people that tried to keep Will and Hannibal apart.

Will must prove his devotion to Hannibal, and Hannibal only, by showing that he won’t hesitate to kill those who know him by name, watch their eyes widen in shock and recognition as he takes their lives. Violence and death are the languages Hannibal knows best, and if Will were to earn back his love, he needs to stain his hands with blood permanently. The kind of blood that he can never wash off - the blood of the people he knows. 

With his newly discovered conviction regarding appeasing Hannibal, Will remembers the words he said once to Bedelia Du Maurier, warning her that meat is back on the menu. He decides that it is finally time to fulfil that promise. 

***

After days of meticulous research and planning, Will successfully manages to break into Bedelia’s house, subdue her and amputate her leg. That is the easy part, and as predicted, Will executes it without too much trouble. He can’t bring himself to stop and think about what he’s done, or become bothered by the brutality of it - his entire being is preoccupied by the part that truly matters. Cooking and serving the meat is the most important aspect; it has to be done right. It has to be perfect, for it’s the first time he’ll be reuniting with Hannibal since surviving Dolarhyde and the FBI.

It is his offering to Hannibal, representing that Will is ready to accept and partake in Hannibal’s ways of living - slaughtering and consuming people as if they’re no better than pigs. Perhaps Will should have realised sooner that the only two humans worth being at the top of the food chain are him and Hannibal, and everyone else is irrelevant, undeserving, dispensable. This is exactly what Hannibal wanted Will to see, and now Will is finally prepared to accept it, confident that this acceptance is what is going to make Hannibal come back to him.

And Hannibal does. He appears quietly and unceremoniously, manifests on Bedelia’s front porch as if created out of thin air, silently glides through the doorway and settles behind Will, just barely in his field of vision, whispering words of encouragement as Will cooks. It feels as if he never left. 

Will doesn’t run to him and wrap him in his arms. He doesn’t stare daggers into Hannibal for leaving in the first place. Will says nothing, just looks at Hannibal and smiles. It’s enough. 

For the first time since embracing Hannibal at that clifftop, Will feels at peace. 

The dinner is ready to be served, and the table has been set for three. Bedelia sits at the head of it, now awake, looking graceful and poised as ever, even in her imminent doom. She is wearing a shimmery dress with a deep decolletage, black like death. Will’s tailored suit is pitch-black too, the only suitable colour for the occasion. 

Hannibal, on the contrary, is dressed in light colours, a cream-white suit with gold accents. It seems out of place at first, but then Will remembers that in some cultures, white is the colour of mourning. Or perhaps, the colour of rebirth. The rebirth of Bedelia as her flesh continues to live on forever as part of Hannibal and Will’s bodies.

The light seeping in from between the curtains gives Hannibal a bright glow, making him look like an ethereal creature who’s descended from the heavens to witness Bedelia’s last supper.

The roasted leg dish is garnished with ti plant leaves and various exotic flowers and fruits; Will’s best attempt at conveying a tropical theme. The vivid colours and flavours associated with the tropical nature are his way of representing the bright and joyous future that he and Hannibal have ahead. Judging by the way Hannibal is smiling radiantly at him from his place at the table, Will has met his expectations with this offering.

“I can see that the happily-ever-after you were expecting after defeating the Red Dragon took quite an unfortunate turn,” Bedelia observes, breaking the silence. 

Will hates that she feels entitled to comment on his and Hannibal’s relationship in such a self-righteous manner. As if she’s worthy of even trying to understand the complex and unique connection they share. Will grits his teeth and swallows his irritation, for now. They’re going to allow Bedelia this small indulgence, agreeing to answer her prying questions about their convoluted love story. It can be her dying wish, considering that the clock that is her life is quickly running out of time. 

“The most demanding journeys yield the most rewarding end destinations,” Hannibal responds thoughtfully, his serene smile unfaltering. 

Bedelia pays him no mind and instead watches with poorly disguised distaste as Will slices up the Kahlua pit-roasted leg and places a piece on each of the three plates. He notices that one of the knives he set on the table earlier is missing, suggesting that when the time comes, Bedelia isn’t intending to go down without a fight. Will decides to allow her this little indulgence too, the delusion that she stands a chance against them.

“We certainly took our time to fully learn each other’s needs, wants and expectations,” Will explains, settling into his assigned place at the other end of the table. 

Bedelia continues to eye him skeptically, not convinced that Will and Hannibal’s future together is going to be as idyllic and trouble-free as Will is making it sound. 

“As much as talking exclusively via murder tableaux appeals to my love for art and symbolism, it is a rather inefficient method of communication,” Hannibal adds.

“But we are here now,” Will finishes Hannibal’s thought. 

He is amazed at the extent of synchrony they seem to share, complementing each other’s words as they speak. 

“I didn’t think it would be so difficult for you to determine what Hannibal would want from his companion,” Bedelia responds, not bothering to hide the ridicule in her tone anymore. “Perhaps, you don’t know him as intimately as you think.”

Will can barely resist an impulse to fling a fork right into her eyeball. He despises Bedelia for constantly reminding him that her relationship with Hannibal so far has been more intimate than Will’s. Maybe, in some ways, it was - she posed as his wife for months, shared a bed with him, saw his unclothed body, bare and fully exposed. And of course, she _kissed_ him, which is something that Will has so far been denied. 

He has to remind himself that all of it was superficial, that it was an act to hide their true identities, that Hannibal was never Bedelia’s. Hannibal’s bond with Will is infinitely more intimate, sacred and devoted than any relationship he could have with another living being. He and Will haven’t yet shared any of the traditional physical acts of love, but Will knows to be patient and trust that they will come in due time. 

“At least Hannibal never saw me as merely a placeholder for somebody else,” Will retorts sharply. 

_You’re just resentful because you realised that you ran off to Florence with a man whose heart belongs to someone else_ , Will wants to add. Though, he refrains, because he knows that Hannibal prefers vaguely worded mockery over outright pettiness. 

Will glances at Hannibal with a pleased smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He’s been wanting to do this for so long; take his time to annihilate Bedelia with words first, before wiping that never-ceasing complacent smile off her face forever. Hannibal smiles at him approvingly in return, candlelight dancing across his features and making them flicker, almost like a mirage. He stays quiet, watching the bitter exchange between Will and Bedelia with an amused expression, treating it like the best quality entertainment under the sun. 

Bedelia doesn’t look in Hannibal’s direction, reluctant to accept that everything Will said is right. 

“So, what are you going to do now? Seal your union with the blood of those who stood in your way?” she asks instead, slowly drawing out the words in her typical fashion.

“Precisely.”

“Save yourself, kill them all,” Hannibal affirms, as if he can hear Will’s thoughts. 

It’s the exact words he’d said to Will at the cliff house, right before the Dragon attacked. Will didn’t understand it then, but he does now. If he must slaughter all Greeks so that he and Hannibal can conquer their Troy, then so be it. 

Bedelia stays silent and watches as Will puts the first piece of the meat in his mouth. It tastes stringier than beef or pork, but nonetheless juicy due to marinating in the Kahlua sauce for several hours. Bedelia takes a mouthful of her own dish too, knowing that there would be consequences if she didn’t. She chews and swallows, trying hard not to crumble under the gruesome notion of engaging in self-cannibalism. Some sick and twisted part of Will wants to chuckle at the sight. 

“Whenever I thought about my imminent end as a result of Hannibal’s influence, I didn’t imagine it to be like this,” Bedelia muses. 

“What did you think it would be?” Will queries with an incredulous expression.

After everything, how did she not expect to have a demise like this? Will was even courteous enough to personally warn her that they were coming for her. 

“I thought he’d personally partake in consuming me,” Bedelia explains, looking awfully pleased with herself. 

Will quirks an eyebrow, trying to make sense of her words. Hannibal didn’t participate in the cooking process, sure, but he was never going to be able to resist coming to get a taste of Bedelia. After all, he’d promised her that he would eat her. Will knew that this would be a foolproof way to lure Hannibal in, to finally make him reunite with Will and never part again. 

“How do you mean?” 

“You seem awfully optimistic about your plan, considering that he still hasn’t made an appearance,” Bedelia points out. 

Will deduces that she must be still delirious from the chloroform Will had used on her. He looks at Hannibal; a reflexive glance to reassure himself that it’s her who is hallucinating, and not him. 

“If he never arrives, what will you do?” Bedelia drawls. 

Will dismisses her, swatting his hand at her like one would do to an annoying fly. Hannibal is very much there, breathing, speaking, taking a bite of the roasted leg Will so diligently prepared. He sets down his fork, and Will leans in, eager to hear his verdict about the quality of his cooking. 

“Indeed, how much longer are you going to keep up hope, Will?” Hannibal asks instead. 

Will stares at him. Then looks at Bedelia, looking smug in her seat. Then he looks back at Hannibal, seeing an empty chair in his place. 

Will blinks. Blinks again, harder. Clenches his eyes shut and counts to ten. Opens his eyes. 

Bedelia is watching him with her head tilted to the side and eyes full of fake sympathy, the way clinicians in psychiatric wards look at their deranged, delusional inpatients. 

“No,” is all Will can say. “No, no, _no_!”

His shaky voice crescendos into a guttural scream, as he digs his hands into his hair, clawing at his scalp. He opens his eyes again, and the chair is still empty, the food in front of it untouched. The space Hannibal occupied just seconds ago is laughing at Will, ridiculing him for being love-sick and naive, for thinking that Hannibal would ever come back to him. 

Bedelia speaks again, but the words turn into a dreadful cacophony in Will’s head. The plates have faces and they’re all sneering at him, loud and mocking; a deafening sound that makes his ears ring. Hannibal isn’t there, never was. Will’s desperate overactive imagination played tricks on him, had him talking to a shadow suspended on dust.

His own mind is snickering at him, Bedelia’s eyes are taunting him, Hannibal’s absence is _killing_ him, and he can’t take it anymore. Will’s hand clenches around a steak knife and he lunges, driving the blade into flesh and spilling blood. 

He watches as it sprays onto the chair Hannibal was supposed to occupy, painting it with streaks of red. Maybe it’s Bedelia screaming in pain, maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s a real wound in her chest coating everything in deep crimson, maybe it’s the metaphorical burst of Will’s shattered heart. Maybe it’s real, maybe it’s another hallucination - but it all hurts just the same. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot twiiiiiist!!  
> Did you see it coming? Let me know your thoughts in the comments!


	5. Depression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal Lecter is not a man that can be hurt with bullets or words. But because Will knows him so deeply, so _intimately_ , he can see the one vulnerability that Hannibal has. There is only one place that Hannibal can’t return to, only one room of his mind palace that he can’t open.
> 
> And that’s exactly where Will is going to be waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year everyone! This chapter is a bit long but I suppose a lot of important stuff happens in it. Also, whoever wanted Will to finally have some agency and power over Hannibal, it starts here! Enjoy ~

Divorce is never easy, whether it’s separating from a failed marriage or from a prolonged love affair with a whiskey bottle. After months of swimming in a drunken haze, crying into each glass before downing it, trying to soothe his aching heart that still longs for Hannibal, Will decides that it needs to stop. Alcohol is no longer a cherished companion, not a shoulder to cry on, not even a friend anymore.

Ironically, the drinking was probably what facilitated that traumatising hallucination in the first place. The mind-numbing liquor that Will has been more than liberal with lately must have combined with his deeply-wounded mind to conjure up the bittersweet illusion that Hannibal came back to him. Will knows that his brain chose to play tricks on him, because it was less painful than accepting the devastating reality that he is still alone.

The frequency of his drinking habit skyrocketed following the fatal events at Bedelia’s house, but Will didn’t consider it to be a problem. Not until he woke up on the bathroom floor, covered in his own puke. That was when he vowed not to touch another psychoactive substance again, refusing to sabotage his already fragile mental state any further. 

Will has never been weak, never one to escape the cruel reality by altering his consciousness. Even after being released from the BSHCI, he chose to face Hannibal and deal with his feelings towards the man through direct confrontation, despite knowing who he is and despite everything he did to Will. Will was able to conquer his demons then, which means he can do it again. Enduring alcohol withdrawals is infinitely less troublesome than recovering from being shot or stabbed, and now he has personal experience to prove it.

Will is surprised that the FBI haven’t found him yet, considering that Bedelia’s house must’ve been full of his fingerprints. He should have cleaned up the scene, but after realising that Hannibal’s presence at the dinner was nothing but an earth-shattering hallucination, and after subsequently stabbing Bedelia in his spontaneous burst of rage, Will was so overwhelmed with anguish and panic that he simply fled and never looked back. 

He thanks his lucky stars that he hasn’t been arrested and thrown back behind bars for murder - one he actually committed this time. Maybe his whiskey binge was a blessing in disguise, ensuring that he was too inebriated to leave the derelict apartment he was renting under his fake identity, and instead ordered takeout and liquor to be delivered to his door. 

Will spends months in complete solitude; even after re-emerging after his extended bender, he stays hidden. He is tempted to stay hidden forever, move away and _move on_. But there’s always a traitor in every tribe, and that traitor is Will’s treacherous heart that betrays the rest of his body. If he could rip it out and leave it behind he would, throw it into the sea like he did to his wedding ring. Will could be free; free from Hannibal, free to be anyone and go anywhere. But with freedom, comes choice. And with the entire world in his hands, all the exotic countries and undiscovered cities just a plane ticket away, where would Will choose to go? 

He tells himself that it’s purely coincidental, simply clinical curiosity, that he is particularly attracted to the countries he knows Hannibal had recently been in - France and Japan. Will sees the pattern immediately; Hannibal is drawn to revisiting the places from his past, retracing his own history. All those years ago, he hid in Italy where he spent his youth. And this time, he hid in Paris where he grew up. Now, Will wonders about the significance of Japan. Did Hannibal ever live there as a young man, or does he simply feel a connection to the country because of his ties to Chiyoh and his Aunt Murasaki, whom he always spoke of so fondly?

Last time Will attempted to get to know Hannibal, he did it by tracking down Castle Lecter in Lithuania, the place that made Hannibal. He can’t stop thinking about what would happen if, this time, he tried tracking down the _people_ that made Hannibal. If Chiyoh is still with Hannibal, Will has no hope of locating her. But if Lady Murasaki is still alive, Will is sure he could find her and even try to go visit her, if he wanted to. 

He could. 

Or, Will could stop chasing Hannibal through the people associated with him, and move on. He could go back to fixing boat engines, surround himself with a family of dogs, and have a peaceful life away from all the blood, violence and pain. He could even convince himself to enjoy it. He knows he could.

But at the back of his mind - and in the core of his heart - he would always wonder what would happen if he hadn’t given up the chase. 

Will is many things, but he is not a quitter. Whether it’s for better or for worse. 

***

The house is small, compact like most things in Japan, but still very homely, with a floral garden blooming in the front yard. Will knocks on the door, and after a minute, an old woman opens it. She looks elegant and petite, with delicate bone structure. Her solid age has turned her hair grey and graced her pale skin with deep lines, but her brown eyes are still bright and attentive. 

“ _Murasaki-san? Kon'nichiwa,”_ Will greets her with a friendly smile.

His pronunciation of Japanese is probably mortifying, but at least he made the effort to learn the common phrases. The woman nods and greets him with a somewhat puzzled expression on her face. Will can’t blame her. Who wouldn’t be puzzled if an American stranger showed up unannounced at their door? 

“I’m Will Graham,” he introduces himself. “You’re Hannibal Lecter’s aunt, right?”

Basic greetings is as far as Will’s newly-acquired knowledge of Japanese goes. He figured out that since Hannibal used to live with his aunt and uncle in Paris, she must speak French. Will hopes that she understands English too, because in the past decade he has spent more time asking people to ‘pardon his French’ than actually speaking French. 

“Will Graham,” Lady Murasaki repeats in a heavily-accented voice, and then, the realisation lights up her features, “Ah, _nakama._ ”

“Yes,” Will responds fondly, “I’m his _nakama._ ”

Saying out loud the Japanese term for companionship fills Will with inexplicable warmth. Being called Hannibal’s _nakama_ is probably the closest Will has ever come to being called Hannibal’s _anything_. And it makes Will’s heart flutter that Lady Murasaki acknowledged it without a second thought, even if Hannibal refuses to.

“Come in,” Lady Murasaki offers in English, inviting Will to step inside, “Would you like some tea?”

Will is not particularly a fan of tea but he smiles and nods. Being perceived as rude is the last thing he wants.

The older woman leads Will into a small, traditional Japanese style kitchen and motions for Will to sit on the cushion in front of a low table. Sitting cross-legged on the floor while dining isn’t something Will has experienced before, but he settles onto the cushion nonetheless. Suddenly, he is thankful for the tea, as opposed to food, because he is awfully clumsy when it comes to using chopsticks and would like to avoid embarrassing himself. For some reason, Will finds himself compelled to make a good impression in front of someone whom Hannibal considers family. 

“Hannibal said that you would come,” Lady Murasaki speaks while placing a kettle onto the stovetop. 

Hannibal was here, in the flesh, and spoke to his aunt about Will? Will blinks in surprise as the warm feeling inside him grows. Maybe Hannibal even sat in the exact spot Will is sitting now. He’d be infinitely graceful when doing it, smoothly crossing his legs while maintaining perfect posture throughout the dinner. Will is sure that he’d use chopsticks effortlessly, too. 

“He... He’s gone now, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Lady Murasaki replies as she sets the teaware on the table. 

Will isn’t surprised to hear that, nor disappointed. He didn’t expect for Hannibal to stay in one place for too long. Although Will isn’t necessarily any closer to finding Hannibal now, he feels the connection between them grow stronger. Although at different points of the time continuum, they visited the same place, spoke to the same person, and _talked about each other_. 

“Did he say anything else about me?” Will queries. 

Lady Murasaki pauses her tea preparations momentarily and turns to face him. 

“He said that you are very dear to him. He misses you,” she says softly. 

“He misses me?!” Will almost snorts, his voice thick with disbelief and awkwardly loud in the otherwise tranquil room. 

The older woman gives him a confused look, and although it’s not ill-intended, it makes Will want to curl in on himself. He certainly doesn’t want to seem impolite, and even more so doesn’t want to subject lady Murasaki to the unresolved anger and bitterness he harbours towards Hannibal. 

“He told me he doesn’t want to see me ever again,” Will adds quietly as an explanation of his previous sarcastic reaction. 

Lady Murasaki doesn’t seem to mind. To Will’s great relief, there is understanding in her eyes. 

“Ah, Hannibal. Always stubborn. Doesn’t see past his own pride,” she responds in a disapproving tone, shaking her head, as if reprimanding a misbehaving child. 

It feels so strange hearing someone speak of Hannibal like that, likening him to a silly young boy. Will has only ever heard people talking about Hannibal in a respectful manner, for the esteemed surgeon and psychiatrist that he is. Or in later years, in a fearful manner after his identity as America’s deadliest serial killer was revealed. Though, if there was anyone on earth that could so openly lecture Hannibal for his character flaws, it would be Lady Murasaki.

Will guesses that she served as the main maternal figure to Hannibal when he grew up. He wonders how much of Hannibal’s current personality was shaped by Lady Murasaki, especially regarding his taste for killing; whether she encouraged it, condemned it, or ignored it. 

The notion of Hannibal being criticised for his choices gives Will a deep sense of validation. It feels reassuring to know that he isn’t the only one thinking Hannibal is unnecessarily cruel and inflexible, forcing Will to go to immeasurable lengths to earn his companionship, instead of just welcoming him with open arms. But although it’s comforting that Lady Murasaki disapproves of it too, Will still doesn’t know how to make Hannibal change his mind.

“I don’t know what he wants from me,” Will admits with a sigh. 

Lady Murasaki doesn’t respond straight away. She brings the teapot to the table and pours a generous serving for Will and herself. Will stays silent too, wondering if that was the wrong question to ask. If she knew - if Hannibal had told her - what he wants from Will, would she relay it to him so easily? 

Just as Will opens his mouth to fill the uncomfortable silence with something, _anything_ , the lady speaks again. 

“Tell me something, Will Graham-san.”

It reminds Will of the way Hannibal often spoke to him, prefacing his questions with “Tell me, Will...” He wonders if Hannibal adopted that phrase from his aunt. 

“Tell me, how do you see him?” she asks after taking a sip of the tea. 

As Will meets her curious eyes, he realises he has never thought about this before. He has never had to define or describe Hannibal with words, not to himself and not to others. For Hannibal’s trial, Will had been asked to provide a detailed account regarding their relationship and Hannibal’s soundness of mind, but his testimony had been clinical, stripped of all emotion; scripted and rehearsed over and over with his lawyers. 

Will’s true perceptions and feelings about the man have always been so multifaceted, conflicting and intense that he never even thought about putting them into words. He’s always seen Hannibal as simply _Hannibal_ ; someone indescribably unique.

Hannibal is made of flesh and bone, sure, but he doesn’t bleed the same way as others. He has a beating heart, but he doesn’t hurt the same way as others. Will is not sure if that means Hannibal is less than human, more than human, or something entirely different. 

Maybe Hannibal is a god, with the way he feels entitled to take the lives of those he deems unworthy? Maybe he is the devil, the satanic beast that relishes in blood and violence, corrupts innocent souls and makes them into killers? Or maybe, he is simply a man who defies both God and the devil, mocking them because he can do both their jobs, but better? 

Lady Murasaki is still looking at him inquisitively, and Will isn’t sure where to begin. 

“Hannibal is one of a kind,” Will replies eventually. ”He leads a very unorthodox lifestyle that not everyone would understand. But I do, because I share his worldview.”

It’s a groundbreaking admission, for Will to reveal that he is similar to Hannibal, knowing how sadistic, remorseless and bloodstained the man’s ideologies are. Lady Murasaki just smiles and tilts her head to the side. Will can’t help but note that is another mannerism Hannibal possibly picked up from her. 

“He is one of a kind, indeed,” she agrees, “But do you believe that he has nothing in common with other people? None of the qualities that make us fundamentally human?” 

“He has feelings. I know he’s capable of feeling things like hurt, sadness and heartbreak. He can forgive too, in his own way,” Will says, “And he is definitely capable of love.” 

“Yes, he is capable of love. And he wants to be loved in return.” 

_And I do love him,_ Will wants to tell her. He wants to scream it from the rooftops and announce it to the entire world. If only that was enough to grant him his beloved’s approval. 

“Do you?” Lady Murasaki asks, as if she can read Will’s mind. 

“I do,” he confirms softly, in an almost whisper. 

The confession is so gentle, so subtle, like the beating of his heart; mostly inaudible and not often at the forefront of his conscious awareness, but still always there. The profound love and devotion are seated so deep inside him that he equates them to something vital, like the blood that’s pulsing under his skin and flesh, keeping him alive. 

“All of him? Unconditionally?” Lady Murasaki questions. 

Will has never been more sure of anything. 

“Yes. If I didn’t accept his worldview, I wouldn’t be here.” 

She studies him for a moment, evaluating him with her eyes. 

“I know, dear boy. You take pleasure in it,” Lady Murasaki says, making Will shudder as a result of the undeniable dark truth in words, “But do you cherish his redeemable qualities the same way you relish in his dark desires?”

Of course Will does. What kind of question is that? Despite being exceedingly brutal and unforgiving at times, Hannibal has many virtuous qualities that make Will’s heart swell with fondness.

“Would you love him the same if he wasn’t a killer?” 

“Yes. I always have, even before I learned who he is,” Will replies without missing a beat. 

Lady Murasaki smiles.

“Then tell him,” she says. 

Before Will can ask how he should go about that, she takes his hand and holds it in her own smaller palms. Will meets her eyes, and through his remarkable empathy he senses something that he never expected to encounter, but something that fills every cell of his body with pure unfiltered joy. What he feels can only be described as Lady Murasaki giving him her blessing. The way she smiles at him, full of pride and approval, undeniably means that she sees Will as worthy of being Hannibal’s partner for the rest of their lives.

And even though Hannibal is not here and even though they still have many unresolved issues to work through, Will is certain that right now, their hearts are beating in unison. 

***

Will feels enlightened. But that doesn’t mean he feels at peace. 

He knows what Hannibal wants now. Hannibal wants to be sure that Will loves him for who he is and not just for his violent tendencies. And that’s exactly how Will loves him; both the monster and the man, equally. To Will, this is the ultimate truth, an unwavering certainty, something he has never questioned. 

He never thought it was something Hannibal would be unsure about.

It seems like the most irrational doubt to have; to think that Will’s love is conditional on Hannibal staying true to his bloodthirsty nature. Though, he supposes, it makes sense. It makes sense for Hannibal to worry that Will is attracted to him only on the surface level, and once he’d satisfied his hunger for blood and destruction, he could easily discard and abandon Hannibal. 

Will understands Hannibal’s insecurity, but _god_ he wishes he hadn’t had to work it out in the most indirect and convoluted way possible. There was no need to communicate via symbolic murder tableaus and dash across the world in search for clues. Hannibal could’ve expressed his doubts by simply talking to Will directly - or write a letter if he is so hellbent on never seeing Will again. 

It didn’t have to be so complicated. Didn’t have to come at such a cost. Didn’t have to cause Will so much heartache and suffering. 

If Hannibal thinks that Will is going to drop everything and run to him, joyous and triumphant, now that he has figured out what Hannibal wants, then he’s wrong. Utterly and laughably wrong. 

Hannibal has set Will’s world on fire, once again. And once again, Will is going to retaliate by giving him a _reckoning_. 

Will loves Hannibal, and he isn’t afraid to express it, not anymore. He loves everything about Hannibal; his ability to be tender and caring, his weaknesses and past trauma, his ridiculously expensive and whimsical taste, and of course, his proclivities for killing and eating people.

But to attain that love, Hannibal will need to pass a test. Just like he made Will pass a test to prove his devotion. Just like Will had to bend backwards to earn Hannibal’s approval, Hannibal will have to face his biggest weakness in order to be reunited with Will. 

At first glance, a man like Hannibal doesn’t have weaknesses. His nerves are made of steel, and apparently, so is his body. In the space of an hour, he was shot through the abdomen, fought and killed the Red Dragon, plummeted off a cliff into the ocean but made his way out, and was apprehended by the FBI but battled his way out of their claws, too. Will could almost believe that Hannibal is physically indestructible.

And if that isn’t impressive enough, Hannibal is just as mentally indestructible. After enduring the pain of almost losing Will at Muskrat Farm, after being rejected and having his heart broken by Will, and after surrendering to the FBI and having all his possessions, dignity and freedom taken from him, Hannibal did not crumble. He didn’t break down in tears, didn’t wreak havoc in a burst of anger, and didn’t take off running in fear. Even after that emotional rollercoaster, he didn’t fully lose his composure in front of Will. 

Hannibal Lecter is not a man that can be hurt with bullets or words. But because Will knows him so deeply, so _intimately_ , he can see the one vulnerability that Hannibal has. There is only one place that Hannibal can’t return to, only one room of his mind palace that he can’t open.

And that’s exactly where Will is going to be waiting. 

He knows that Hannibal’s biggest challenge is to come to terms with his childhood trauma. And he now knows that Hannibal’s biggest desire is to be loved by Will. By putting the desire where the challenge is, is how Will is going to get what he wants. That’s exactly how he is going to tame the wild beast that is Hannibal Lecter.

Will writes Hannibal a letter detailing his intentions and gives it to Lady Murasaki to pass onto her nephew. Then, he buys a one-way plane ticket to Lithuania.

***

_Dear Hannibal,_

_I have travelled for miles and crossed oceans, in search for you. I have saved lives and ended lives, to be seen by you. I have witnessed the wrath of hate and the power of love, to truly get to know you._

_And in my quest, I have grown to love every facet of the world, as I have with you._

_The good and the bad. The pain and the nurturing. The triumph and the trauma. I crave you like a man craves life, loving it for everything that it is._

_If you feel the same way, join me, and we will never part again._

_You’ll find me where you began, in the foundation of your mind palace. Not trapped, not chained, but willingly waiting, just like you waited for me behind bars all those years. I’ll wait forever if I have to. I have now seen the world and I know that there is nothing in it that I would long for more than I long for you._

_Always yours,_

_Will_

Hannibal reads the letter. Then reads it again and again. He lets every word become etched in his memory, lets the declaration of love soothe his bruised heart. 

In a way, it’s exactly what Hannibal wanted; for Will to show him something other than death and destruction. When he sent Will on a quest to prove his devotion, he didn’t expect Will to come up with a quest of his own. Now, knowing that Will loves him for all that he is, Hannibal wants to reunite with him more than ever before. But he can’t. 

Hannibal can move mountains and part seas, he can break people’s bodies and bend their minds. But there is one thing he can’t do, and that is returning to his childhood home. And that is exactly where Will placed himself, knowing full well that Hannibal can’t get to him. And Hannibal hates him for it. But at the same time, he can’t help but be impressed and even proud at the cleverness of Will’s plan. 

His Will. His brilliant, sweet Will. Instead of making Hannibal unleash the powerful and monstrous part of him, Will is going to force Hannibal to face the scared and vulnerable part of him. It’s a devious plan in all its innocence; infinitely cruel without being violent, fatal without spilling a single drop of blood. 

In the past, Hannibal had tried returning to Castle Lecter several times. He’d walk right up to the majestic gates, but was unable to step foot past the threshold. He’d brace himself, gritting his teeth with determination, telling himself that he can do this, that he is a prisoner of his past no longer. But every time, his knees gave out, his body began to tremble, and his mind was flooded with disturbing images of the traumatic events that took place inside those gates. 

Of course, he travels to Lithuania as soon as he reads Will’s letter. Not to immediately try going to the castle again - as he still doubts he will succeed - but to at least be in close proximity to it. Being close by means that if all else fails, he can try to draw Will out of the estate and onto neutral ground, where he can face Will without being overwhelmed by the ghosts of his past. 

***

Hannibal arrives in time with sunrise, when it’s still dark enough to blend into the shadows. He doesn’t head to the main gates, circling the perimeter instead. Exploring and preparing, like a hunter staking out his prey. A strategy like this makes him feel more in control. 

Like the experienced predator that he is, Hannibal knows the advantages of approaching slowly, getting to know his surroundings, and picturing all possible scenarios in his head, before he attacks. This feels like a battle, a fight to the death, even though he is fighting nobody but himself. 

From his vantage point among the trees, Hannibal sees a figure emerge from the castle and make its way to the lone bench by the front gate. It’s a man, lean and slender, dressed in a black coat with the collar turned up, the wind ruffling his dark unruly curls as he walks. It’s _the man_. The man of his dreams. It’s his Will, his handsome, cunning Will, looking even more breathtaking and ethereal than Hannibal remembered. 

He is right there, almost close enough to touch. The bench is no more than a few metres from the gate. Hannibal can do it, he can force himself to finally cross the threshold, take those few steps and sit down by Will’s side. He can anchor himself there with the man that he loves, gripping the bench as his lifeline if he has to. This time, he won’t crumble. Not when he’s with Will. He’s going to let himself get lost in Will’s presence and be comforted by the calm greenish-blue sea in Will’s eyes.

He can do this. 

He can. 

And he does. 

One step. Another step. One foot in front of the other. Fingernails harshly digging into his palms to stop his mind from wandering. Eyes deadlocked on Will’s side profile, his lighthouse in the sea of anguish. 

Hannibal sits, slowly letting out the breath he’s been holding ever since opening the gate. Will turns to look at him, evaluating him with his eyes. His features look like they have been carved out of stone and his demeanour is reserved, like that of a man who has been burned too many times before. But despite that, Hannibal can see a tiny phantom of a smile tugging at the corner of Will’s mouth. 

“I thought you’d make me wait forever,” Will says, turning his head back to look straight ahead, his gaze wandering among the autumn leaves scattered in the overgrown grass, “1143 days, to be precise.” 

Three years, one month and 17 days. Hannibal had kept count, of course, but he didn’t think that Will would too. That is how long he waited for Will, confined to a cell, with nothing but his mind palace to protect him from slipping into insanity and despair. 

Although this time, they have only been apart for mere five months, it feels like a lifetime.

“You may be surprised to find that ‘an eye for an eye’ is not always a principle I live by,” Hannibal responds, unable to stop a small affectionate smile from creeping onto his face.

He can’t resist the urge to look at Will, to marvel at his long-lost lover. The curly strands of Will’s hair are dancing in the wind, exposing the flawless shape of his face and the scars gracing it. The one on his forehead Hannibal knows too well, better than anyone else, as it were his own hands that etched it into the soft skin. But this is the first time Hannibal gets to properly see the line of raised tissue across Will’s right cheek.

He is beautiful. And that beauty is further enhanced by his scars. Although Hannibal wishes that things had unfolded differently, that their catastrophic history hadn’t left permanent marks on Will’s face, he isn’t sure if a different combination of fate and circumstance would have brought them into this precious moment. 

Will digests Hannibal’s words and gives him a thoughtful hum. 

“Is it something you live by?” Hannibal asks, letting his curiosity take the reins. 

If Will has gone through the effort to draw him out of hiding and force him to come to this wretched place, there must be a reason. Whatever game Will has devised can’t be as simple as just sitting on this bench and talking things out. Hannibal knows his beloved’s cunning mind too well, and he knows that he has done enough awful things to deserve Will’s wrath. 

“No,” Will replies and shakes his head, still watching the long grass flailing in the wind instead of looking at Hannibal. “Revenge doesn’t heal wounds. It only makes more of them.” 

Hannibal could argue that healing pain with more pain can be quite cathartic, but right now, after being away from Will for so long, arguing is the last thing he wants to do. 

“That makes us men with a thousand cuts,” he says instead. 

“You know that you can heal those cuts, right, Hannibal?” 

Hannibal knows he can, being an esteemed healer, doctor and a surgeon. He has sutured many of Will’s wounds before, but only with stitches and bandages, not with words. Not once did he speak words to Will that were so sweet and mending that they glued the broken teacup fully back together. 

And now, Will is putting his foot down, firmly, knowing that Hannibal can’t do the same. He can’t put his foot down because he doesn’t have a leg to stand on - literally - as his knees feel weak and there is a nervous shudder coursing through his calves due to the simple notion that he is back in this miserable place, the core of his nightmares. 

So, Hannibal has no choice but to take the bait. 

“Ever since we met, I may have treated you in ways that are perhaps more Machiavellian and hurtful than warranted. And more recently, I may have been unnecessarily uncooperative in my communications with you, despite both of us desiring the same outcome.”

“ _May have?_ ” Will repeats in an incredulous tone and rolls his eyes. “Still, I would be willing to forgive you.” 

The conditional phrasing catches Hannibal’s attention. _Would be._ It means that he hasn’t been forgiven yet. There is potential for forgiveness, but it would come with a price. 

“Your kindness has always been tremendous, dear Will.” 

Will shrugs and tugs the lapels of his coat tighter around him for protection from the cold wind. Hannibal allows his body to momentarily give in to a rough shiver too, although it isn’t the cold that’s making his bones seem immobile and his muscles feel paralysed. 

“I haven’t been a saint either,” Will admits, calm and poised like a statue carved of marble, “I’ve broken your heart more than once and pushed you away when I shouldn’t have. It was a mistake, but I’m here to fix it.”

“I’m delighted that we are both willing to forgive one another’s wrongdoings,” Hannibal hums. “Although the meeting point you’ve chosen is less than pleasant to me, it is infinitely better to be here with you than somewhere else and apart.” 

“It had to happen here, Hannibal. You and I both know that we don’t do things the easy way.”

There is nothing about the way Will conducts himself that feels particularly kind or warm, but despite that, his presence is like ointment to Hannibal’s tightly coiled insides. 

“It appears that with you by my side, I am able to achieve new heights,” Hannibal acknowledges in awe, still in disbelief that he is sitting here, in the place he thought he could never come back to.

“And I don’t intend to leave your side,” Will responds.

He meets Hannibal’s eyes, and for the first time there is a proper smile lighting up his face.

Hannibal knows many languages but none of them, even combined, would have enough words to describe the fond feeling that blooms in his chest at Will’s promise. So, he feels that nothing would be more fitting than expressing himself with an action that speaks louder than words. He lifts his hand to the side of Will’s face, wanting to angle it so that he can place his lips on Will’s. 

And just as Hannibal’s fingertips come in contact with Will’s stubbled cheek, he flinches. Fast, like a strike of lightning, he jerks out of Hannibal’s reach, the soothing sea of aquamarine in his eyes turning ice-cold.

“Don’t. Don’t touch me like that.” Will’s tone is as freezing as the look in his eyes.

And without Will explicitly saying it, Hannibal knows exactly what he means. His touch is cursed with a distressing association, a conditioned fear response, and it’s no one’s fault but his own. Too many times have Hannibal’s gentle caresses of Will’s face been followed by something deeply painful, like the tube he forced down Will’s throat or the blade he sank into Will’s abdomen. Although this time he doesn’t intend to hurt Will, he understands why the man reacted the way he did. 

In that moment, he can see himself the way Will sees him: a charming and devious snake, disarming his mongoose with apologies and sweet promises, blinding him with a deceitful kiss, luring him out of this cursed castle into a place where Hannibal isn’t powerless, turning those promises into dust, and bending him to Hannibal’s will, again.

Although the possibility crossed Hannibal’s mind, he didn’t consider taking it, not even for a second. 

“It was good to see you, Hannibal,” Will says, his icy eyes clashing with Hannibal’s burning hot heart, “but I'm going to go. Before I get another _scar_ to remember you by.” 

Hannibal wants to let go of his composure, let it shatter into pieces and reveal the suffering man underneath. He wants to crumble, collapse to the ground in a pathetic, sobbing mess. He wants to scream and cry at his demons, shrieking as loud as he can to make them disappear. He wants to crawl on all fours and kiss the ground Will walks on, begging him not to leave. Because if Will leaves, Hannibal doesn’t know if he can survive. 

But he doesn’t do any of that. 

“It was good to see you too, Will,” is all he says. His voice sounds choked and pained, but it’s miniscule compared to the terror he feels inside. 

Will nods and stands. He turns around and walks back towards the castle, back to the place where Hannibal can’t reach him.

Hannibal is left there, desperately clutching at the bench that doesn’t feel like a lifeline anymore. Now, it feels like a ship lost in the storm, destined to sink with no hope of reaching the shore, because his lighthouse has turned its back on him and left him on his own in the darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm curious to hear your thoughts again! Did you expect a hannigram kiss to happen or were you prepared for another angsty plot twist? Let me know in the comments :)


	6. Testing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I told you about my childhood, now you have to tell me about yours,” Will says after a while.
> 
> “Certain rooms of my mind palace are not meant to be opened ever again, Will. I think I may have even lost the keys to them.” 
> 
> Will groans, stifling the urge to call Hannibal out on his lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will apologists, come collect your feast!  
> In short, Will tries to make Hannibal open up about his childhood trauma, but in his typical stubborn fashion, Hannibal is bound to make it as difficult as possible.

The ground is cold, frozen beneath the dewy grass, and the cool moisture makes Hannibal’s bare cheek feel numb. He doesn’t mind, because in comparison, it’s much colder six feet under. Mischa doesn’t feel the cold, of course, since her soul has long ago separated from the body that’s buried underneath where Hannibal is lying. Still, he stays there, with his face pressed to the ground and his hands curled around the sides of the gravestone, shielding her from the icy wind with his body. 

It doesn’t make sense, he knows it doesn’t. Mischa isn’t even _here_ anymore, but it hurts so much that he has to pretend she is.

Hannibal quietly hums a tune, lips spelling inaudible words of a Lithuanian lullaby he used to sing to his sister every night. It always calmed her, made the monsters retreat and the house feel safer, and now Hannibal hopes it will do the same for him too. 

He knows exactly how he got here, but he wants to pretend that he doesn’t. After Will left him on that bench several days ago, he made it abundantly clear that Hannibal would have to enter the castle if he wanted to be with Will again. And Hannibal knows he can’t do it. He may be able to walk the grounds outside, as those aren’t associated with so many painful memories, but because of the macabre horrors that happened to him in the main castle, he can never step inside the building. 

But Will didn’t leave him any other choice but to try. 

So today, Hannibal attempted to approach the Lecter estate from the back, climbing the tall fence and making his way through the thick woods. It felt less confrontational than entering through the main gates, which were part of his terror-stricken childhood memories. The back route was a good strategy, the only potential problem being that it involved cutting through the cemetery. Hannibal told himself that if he just kept walking and fixed his eyes firmly on the path in front of him, not skitting across the gravestones, he could make it through without incident. 

So he thought. And that’s where everything went wrong. 

It took one glance to Mischa’s ornate tombstone, and now he’s lying on top of his sister’s grave, a never-ending stream of tears rolling down his face.

It has been minutes, maybe hours. Hannibal figures that if he lies here long enough and lets Mischa’s cold body absorb all of his body heat, if he breathes life into her in the form of whispering tender lullabies, maybe she’s going to rise from the dead. At least in his imagination if nothing else. Her presence is the only thing that could make this godforsaken place bearable, fill it with hope and happiness, the way it was when she was alive. 

Hannibal tries to force his mind to think only of the positive memories he has with his sister. Her voice. Her laugh. The way she loved him. And the way he loved her in return. The way he’s never been able to love anyone else since. Until Will. 

If only Hannibal could just walk into the castle and reunite with his lover. It seems so easy. He could walk the distance in a few minutes. But he knows that there are monsters lurking in the woods, the ghosts of the people that hurt him and took Mischa from him. Hannibal could fight them all he wants, with daggers, knives, and even his bare hands - and he has, he killed them all long ago - but here, he can’t win against them. He can be the world’s deadliest killer, but he can’t kill the ghosts that haunt his mind.

And no matter how much he fights, no matter how many people he kills, he can’t bring Mischa back. And with Mischa gone, unable to repel the demons with her light and help him get to the castle, Will is unattainable too.

Maybe eventually he’ll get up and go back, determined to come back to Will another day. Maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll lie here forever, until his body becomes one with the ground and his soul finally meets Mischa’s warm embrace once again. 

*** 

There is only so much a man can do in a deserted castle to cure his boredom. Will has already explored all the rooms and perused everything Hannibal’s family owned and left behind, learning as much as possible about the Lecters and their history. 

When he was last here all those years ago, on his quest to find Hannibal after the man fled from Baltimore, he did not get a chance to explore the main castle from the inside. He only visited the prisoner chamber underground and the house Chiyoh lived in. As Will recalls his first adventures at Castle Lecter, he remembers his own mark that he left at the estate; the humble tribute to Hannibal and his grotesque corpse art. 

The firefly tableau that Will created out of Chiyoh’s prisoner must still be down in the cells. The man’s body will be thoroughly rotten by now, but otherwise untouched, since Will doesn’t imagine anyone has visited the property since then. Now, he is filled with an inexplicable urge to go see his creation again - although Will did not kill the man, he now understands why many murderers are compelled to return to the scenes of their crimes. 

The stench of death and decay hits his nostrils as soon as he pries open the door leading to the underground chambers and descends down the stairs. The revolting smell is so overwhelming to his senses that Will almost - _almost_ \- fails to hear the faint rustling coming from where the cell is. 

“Although well past its prime, it’s a breathtaking display.” 

The voice startles Will, and he nearly trips over his own feet in the dimly lit space. As he recognises whom the smooth voice belongs to, he almost stumbles, again, but for a completely different reason. 

“Hannibal?” he asks, dumbfounded. 

Hannibal regards him with warm eyes, swaying on his feet a little as he cranes his neck to get a better view of the firefly man suspended from the ceiling. 

“When Chiyoh told me what you did to her prisoner, I was in utter awe. I never thought I’d get to see your creation with my own eyes.”

Will just blinks. Once, then twice. Hannibal is standing there, right in front of him, looking at the decomposed carcass of a man as if it’s an art piece worth a million dollars. This must be another hallucination. It has to be, simply due to the fact that Hannibal seems unbothered by the putrid stench that surely would be extremely unpleasant to his hypersensitive nose. 

It has been a week since Will last spoke to Hannibal, sitting on that bench by the front gates. Although he believed Hannibal would return to the estate to try to meet Will again, he didn’t expect it to be so soon. Suddenly, every cell of his body is itching to do the silliest but most sensible thing he can do in the moment; to poke Hannibal to see if he is real. 

Will decides to settle for something more subtle than poking to satisfy his urge, and comes to stand next to the other man. As he walks past, he slightly nudges Hannibal’s arm in a carefully calculated motion. Immediately, Will can feel the warmth where their bodies touched.

 _Real_. 

Even through several layers of clothing, Will can sense a tingling spark, a wonderful sensation that feels inexplicably good. _Feels like home_. Hannibal can sense it too, judging by how he smiles at Will’s gesture and leans against him lightly, so that their arms are pressed against each other again. 

“It seems that it is bearable for me to be in these chambers, although I cannot step foot into the castle. Perhaps, it’s because I never came down here as a young boy.” 

“I’m glad you could make it here. And see my work,” Will replies, relieved that his mind isn’t playing tricks on him this time. 

“As am I. But I don’t believe the sole reason you made me return to my childhood home was to show me this display, as marvellous as it is.”

“No,” Will confirms, “it wasn’t.” 

Hannibal turns to him again, withdrawing his arm where it rested against Will’s. In the safety of the shadows, Will allows himself to wince at the loss of the warm sensation.

“Then why did you do it?” Hannibal asks, the cluelessness in his tone almost childlike. 

Pretense. All of it. Will wants to roll his eyes. This is a man who is incredibly intelligent and calculating, always a step ahead of everyone else. He knows why he is here and what Will wants from him. He just doesn’t want to face it, trying to feign obliviousness instead.

“You know why, Hannibal,” Will sighs. 

“A cruel, cunning man, that’s what you are.” 

Will looks at him with raised eyebrows. The statement would almost sound malicious, if not for the deeply smitten look in Hannibal’s eyes. They glisten in the darkness of the chamber, appearing almost teary.

That look mends the heart-shaped lesion in Will’s chest, soothes the ache in his body, and nourishes his dried-out soul. Will would kill, time after time, just to be regarded with those awestruck eyes again. 

Hannibal opens his mouth to say something else. His features furrow as if he’s trying to arrange his thoughts into coherent sentences before speaking. 

“You want to see me at my most vulnerable, Will, to relish in the power you think you have over me,” he says finally, dragging the words out, slow and meaningful, as if uttering his dying wish. “I’ve come to realise that you’ve been consumed by the compulsion to conquer, dominate and humiliate. A new sadistic compulsion, not so different from the urge to maim, mutilate and kill, which you’ve always had within you.” 

Will stares at him in disbelief, watching how the adoring glaze of Hannibal’s eyes is replaced by an accusatory flavour. 

“No, that’s not what I want at all!” Will splutters. 

Suddenly, he wants to scream. It’s astonishing how ridiculously melodramatic Hannibal can be when he wants to. Could it be that he misunderstood Will’s intentions so profoundly? Can he really not see that Will’s intentions are to nurture rather than destroy?

Drawing Hannibal back to his childhood home is Will’s way of proving that he loves Hannibal in a supportive and nourishing way. Will wants to learn what happened to Hannibal here that was so deeply scarring and help him heal those wounds, together. He always thought of Hannibal as a beast that couldn’t - and shouldn’t - be caged. That includes freeing him from being shackled by the nightmares of his past, too.

“I didn’t bring you to this place because I like seeing you weak, Hannibal. I brought you here to help you become stronger.” 

Hannibal rolls his eyes in an exaggerated fashion. A gesture Will has never seen him do before, as it seems so ill-fitting for his usual polite demeanour. 

“Why don’t you psychoanalyse me, Doctor Graham? Perhaps you should administer the Rorschach inkblot test. I bet you will be fascinated by my disturbing responses,” Hannibal exclaims. 

His voice is laced with so much uncharacteristic pettiness that Will starts to think that he is hallucinating after all. Then, Hannibal lets out a loud hiccup. And that’s when it dawns on Will. 

The man is drunk.

Inebriated. Intoxicated out of his mind. It explains all the swaying and glossy eyes. And due to the room reeking of death, he couldn’t initially smell the alcohol in Hannibal’s breath.

“Hannibal, you’re drunk,” Will accuses with an incredulous huff. 

“Must you chastise me for resorting to the substances that are widely used in our society to soothe one’s heartache and suffering? I am human after all.” 

Will shakes his head and slumps down to sit on the stone floor, leaning his back on the wall. 

“Yes, you’re human. And I want to treat you as such,” he says, “By helping you work through whatever it was that happened to you in this place.” 

“What happened here doesn’t define or hinder me as a person. There is no need for any kind of impromptu therapeutic intervention.”

“Hannibal…” Will sighs, “Just tell me what happened. Tell me what it was that made you the way you are.”

“You are incorrect in assuming that I am solely a product of my traumatic childhood,” Hannibal points out. For someone who has consumed probably at least one whole bottle of wine, his movements are still surprisingly elegant, aside from slight balancing issues. 

“So you’re saying it’s all innate?” Will probes further, subtly trying to engage the man in a conversation. 

“Nature versus nurture is always an interesting topic to discuss,” Hannibal comments, ever-so-gracefully sinking down to sit beside Will. “Like everyone else, I am a product of both.”

Will nods, pleased that he is finally getting the man to open up. Maybe they are getting somewhere. 

The origins of Hannibal as a killer are a mystery to the world, a secret hidden in the very core of his mind palace, thoroughly shielded from nosy shrinks and the like. No amount of psychological profiling or perusing his childhood home comes even close to capturing the man’s unique nature. The enigma can only be deciphered if Hannibal willingly chooses to disclose it to those he deems worthy. And no one, no one in the whole wide world has been granted such a privilege. 

No one except Will Graham, the only man that Hannibal let himself be _seen_ by.

And Will Graham knows he will be _damned_ if he doesn’t accept the gift he’s been given, the opportunity to learn everything about the mystery that is Hannibal Lecter.

“Did you think about killing people before those men hurt you and Mischa?” he asks tentatively.

“The idea of taking a life has always been intriguing to me,” Hannibal answers in his typical vague fashion. “I believe the same can be said about yourself.” 

Hannibal is right; Will has always harboured thoughts about killing, even before he pulled the trigger on Garrett Jacob Hobbs. Humans are naturally curious things, and many probably wonder what it would feel like to take a life. Will knows that hypothetical thoughts hardly ever equal to intent. So what is it then that separates Hannibal from the rest of mankind? 

“Those men. Were they the first people you killed?” Will queries.

He is certain that Hannibal slaughtering the men that hurt him and Mischa isn’t a question. What he is unsure of, though, is whether those murders awakened the bloodthirsty monster in Hannibal that wasn’t satisfied with simply spilling the blood of those who rightfully deserved it. Or whether he was born a killer, and the opportunity to avenge his sister was simply a chance for him to indulge his innate urges. 

Hannibal tilts his head up, glancing at the firefly man, the last of his and Mischa’s tormentors. 

“What kind of a performer doesn’t rehearse their act before the show?” he muses with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Will meets his eyes, nodding in understanding. “Was it as satisfying as you’d hoped?” 

When Will shot Hobbs, snapped Tier’s neck, and stabbed that sex offender in Scotland, it simply felt good. But none of it felt as deeply and thoroughly _satisfying_ as killing for personal reasons, like sinking a knife into Dolarhyde’s flesh again and again for putting a bullet through Hannibal. 

“Was killing Dr. Du Maurier as satisfying as you hoped?” Hannibal replies with a question of his own. 

Will doesn't answer straight away. She deserved it, without a doubt. Bedelia knew what was coming, she knew who Hannibal is. Will even warned her. Still, she didn’t run, so can Will really blame himself for fulfilling his promise?

Plunging that blade into Bedelia’s chest felt good too. But in addition to that, it felt _right_. She dared to occupy the space that was reserved for Will, linking arms with Hannibal and being regarded as his spouse. By doing that, she set herself up with a reckoning, and it was only a matter of time before it caught up with her. 

“Yes,” Will admits. 

“Then you know exactly how I felt,” Hannibal concludes. 

The light from the lone gas lamp illuminating the room dances across Hannibal’s features, casting shadows onto his flawlessly-sculpted cheekbones. In that lighting, he looks almost supernatural, like a mirage. Not a human, not a ghost. Not a saint, not a sinner. Somebody that’s one of a kind. 

It’s exactly how Will sees him, a being that is too magnificent to be bound by the morals of society, the rights and the wrongs determined by mankind. He sits there, deep in his thoughts, until Hannibal’s voice breaks the spell.

“The stench here is rather unpleasant. Would you care to accompany me outside?” 

Will gets on his feet, and they exit the chambers, emerging back into the gloomy autumn afternoon. It’s cold and the wind is vicious, but Hannibal can’t go inside the castle, so they decide to settle somewhere outdoors. Will finds a little secluded corner, lined by the outer walls of the house Chiyoh used to reside in, one that would satisfactorily shield them from the freezing wind.

“Will you tell me now?” Will asks once they’re sitting side by side again, leaning their backs on the wall, like before. “Tell me about your sister, your family, your childhood. Doesn’t have to be the bad stuff.”

“Why don’t you tell me about yours first?” Hannibal suggests. 

Will sighs. With Hannibal, there is no give without take. “Fine. But you have to do it in return.”

Hannibal hums in agreement and shifts into a more comfortable position on the cold concrete. It’s pointless, and quite immoral too, to ask an inebriated man invasive questions about his trauma, so Will decides to give up with that idea for now. So, he talks about his own childhood instead. 

He tells Hannibal everything. Everything about how he can barely remember anything about his mother, and only unpleasant things about his father. How the man spent his days confessing his love to cheap liquor instead of looking after his young son. How Will, before his age even hit double digits, had to teach himself everything ranging from basic survival skills to the complexities of social interaction. How he’d learned to always fend for himself, look out for himself and protect himself, be it from his father’s fists or from his classmates’ sneers. 

Although his upbringing was less than ideal, Will doesn’t want any sympathy. And thankfully, Hannibal doesn’t try to provide it and instead stays silent as Will talks. He doesn’t move and doesn’t speak. He just listens, and Will finds it strangely comforting. 

Until he feels the man’s cheek nudge his shoulder. 

Will turns to look at Hannibal, the movement eliciting a light snore from him. 

It’s the second time today Hannibal has completely astounded him. First, by appearing at the estate in a drunken state, and now, by falling asleep in the middle of Will’s heart-wrenching story. Will lets out an incredulous chuckle and settles with his back against the wall, propping Hannibal’s droopy head against his shoulder so that it wouldn’t hang down uncomfortably. 

Will hates talking about his past, resents appearing weak and gathering sympathies, so maybe this is for the better. Whatever little Hannibal heard of Will’s story most likely didn’t even get close to being retained in his memory. 

So, Will lets him sleep. He really can’t blame Hannibal for using alcohol to cope, after having done so himself way too many times in recent months. Being liquored-up is probably the only way he was able to make it to the underground chambers, with his mind numb enough that the nightmares of his past didn’t bother him. 

As a particularly forceful burst of chilling wind hits them, Hannibal shivers and shifts, his cheek slipping from where it was pressed against Will’s shoulder and causing his entire body to slouch forward. Will automatically catches him, gently easing Hannibal’s upper body down to rest on his thighs. The man hums and readjusts in his sleep, seeking a more comfortable position, stretching out on the concrete and planting his head on Will’s lap. 

Will can’t stop a small smile from creeping onto his face. His hand absent-mindedly finds Hannibal’s hair and brushes it away where it fell over his eyes. Even after the gesture, though, Will’s fingers linger, gently running over Hannibal’s temple. Then brushing his scalp. Then carding through his hair. Then repeating all those actions over and over. 

Hannibal is sound asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, blissfully unaware of his surroundings. For that reason, Will finds it easy to never retract his hand and continue his idle caresses. His fingertips now move to explore Hannibal’s face, delicately tracing his jawline and thumbing the shell of his ear. Before Will notices, the palm of his hand has settled to cup Hannibal’s cheek. It feels so natural, as if the pronounced cheekbone was made to fit into the nook between Will’s palm and fingers, like a key fitting into a lock. 

With his hand resting against the side of Hannibal’s face, his thumb just touching the corner of the man’s lips, Will can pretend. He can pretend that they aren’t who they are, and that their circumstances are different. He can pretend they’re just two lovers living in harmony, without all the heartbreak and violence, enjoying an idyllic afternoon outdoors. He can pretend that the man he is holding in his arms is his partner for life, someone whom he has been loyal and devoted to for years.

And isn’t that the truth? 

It may be that there is a monster lying on Will’s lap, the most lethal and remorseless beast on the planet. It may be that if he were the Will Graham from several years ago, he would’ve turned this abomination of a man straight to the FBI as soon as he drifted off to sleep. It may be that if he were that same Will Graham, he would’ve plunged a blade into Hannibal’s unconscious body, wanting to scar him the same way he scarred Will. 

It may be. But it isn’t. 

Will isn’t the same vengeful man from several years ago. No, he is worse than that. 

He is selfish. 

Will is selfish, so he isn’t going to do what _should_ be done, but only what his hedonistic self wants. With Hannibal asleep and with nobody here to witness his acts but himself, Will is going to keep his arms wrapped around the man of his dreams and continue to tenderly caress his face. Nothing more, nothing less. And if a single soul, innocent or not, dares to interrupt their peace, Will is going to kill them. He is selfish and ruthless, and he would not hesitate to slaughter on sight if it meant Hannibal’s sleep would remain undisturbed and they could stay in this precious and wonderful moment a little longer. 

There could be a silent bloodbath, and Hannibal would never know. Even if he awoke from his alcohol-induced slumber, he wouldn’t remember a thing from the past hour.

That’s when Will realises exactly why Hannibal did it.

Without a doubt, he drank with a purpose, deliberately inebriating himself so that he wouldn’t have to talk about his traumatic childhood to Will. Not only that, but also so that he could stare at Will with his smitten, awestruck eyes and later dismiss it as nonsensical drunken behaviour.

Of course, all of this was a plan to strip Will of his power, to make sure he didn’t have the upper hand in this place where Hannibal is defenseless. To ascertain that Will wouldn’t get his way and force Hannibal to come to terms with his trauma. Altering his own consciousness was Hannibal’s way to take control of the situation and reduce Will to a passive onlooker. Because what else is there to do with an intoxicated man but to allow him his capricious and lovestruck whims and settle him down somewhere to sleep it off? 

The more Will thinks about it, the more he becomes convinced that the drinking is a purposeful scheme and not just a coping mechanism that allowed Hannibal to step through the gates of Castle Lecter. He hates Hannibal for it, for coming up with this simple but genius trick of taking himself out of Will’s reach. Out of Will’s control. 

But again, Will is a selfish man. Having Hannibal asleep in his arms - intentionally or not - allows Will to have his way anyway. Because all he wants is to be genuine and tender with the man he would die for, to drop the masks of pretentiousness and just coexist with him, hold Hannibal’s face between his hands, and let their breaths and heartbeats intertwine, even for a brief moment. 

Hannibal shifts and mumbles something unintelligible, pulling Will out of his thoughts. He blinks rapidly a few times, eyes adjusting to the brightness of the day outside. Once he realises his head is resting on Will’s legs, his features melt into an adoring smile. 

“To awaken in your arms is a reverie I never allowed myself, for it is too perfect and unattainable to dream about,” Hannibal speaks softly. 

Will gives him a lopsided smile in return and rubs a hand over his face and neck, shooing away the warm pink tinge blossoming on his skin. 

“You must be thirsty,” he says, knowing too well how a hangover feels, “Come to the castle, I have water and aspirin there.”

Hannibal makes no intention to get up. 

“Even in the middle of the desert, dehydrated to the brink of death, I would reach for you instead of water, for just one look into your eyes nourishes me better than an entire ocean,” he says, his eyes fixated on Will’s face like it’s the most precious object in the world. 

_Not hungover,_ Will deduces with an eye roll, _still drunk._

Responding appropriately to normal displays of affection has never been Will’s forte; his lack of such experiences growing up is the main culprit to blame. It’s even more difficult when it comes to Hannibal’s overdramatic declarations, with their poetic wording and intense flood of feelings that Will doesn’t know how to deal with. 

“You’re insufferable,” he mumbles in response, averting his eyes. 

“Is it so bad for me to express how much I cherish you?” Hannibal asks, pursing his lips. 

Will continues to avoid his gaze. Hannibal’s feelings towards him have always been strong and unwavering. _Overwhelming_. Weighing Will down with their colossal magnitude. And the alcohol the man consumed serves like gasoline to the fire in his heart, making the flames a thousand times bigger.

It’s quite heartbreaking, really, that the only time Will hears such tender words from Hannibal is when the man is intoxicated. Whenever he is sober and in his right mind, all his communications with Will become convoluted metaphors and relentless manipulation.

“You don’t mean any of it,” Will snaps. 

“I do, and you know that,” Hannibal protests. “But perhaps the reason you reject my proclamations is because you don't feel the same way about me.” 

The besotted expression on his face changes to hurt, and Will hates it. He hates Hannibal for doing this, and hates himself for allowing it. It was him that decided to cradle Hannibal into his lap after all. 

“I do,” Will objects with a sigh. 

Hannibal pouts again but doesn’t persist, and settles his head back down on Will’s thighs. 

“I told you about my childhood, now you have to tell me about yours,” Will says after a while. A change of topic is desperately needed, and he needs to make sure he’s going to receive his end of the deal. 

“Certain rooms of my mind palace are not meant to be opened ever again, Will. I think I may have even lost the keys to them.” 

Will groans, stifling the urge to call Hannibal out on his lies.

“This is why I spent days looking through every room in the castle. I tried to piece together what happened. Now you only need to fill in the blanks,” he offers with a helpful smile. 

Hannibal looks unimpressed at Will’s revelation. His features darken like a rapidly-forming thunderstorm, tightening his mouth into a sharp line and causing his eyelid to twitch in a microexpression of anger. 

“Is that all I am to you, Will?” he questions, his tone icier than the wind, “Just another case for you to solve, another criminal to profile?”

“No, it’s not like that.” 

“You are an intelligent man, you don’t need me here to help you unravel your mystery. Goodbye, Will.”

Hannibal rises to leave, giving him one last glance. But the next second, Will is on his feet too, hands on Hannibal's shoulders, backing him against the wall. 

The words ring in Will’s ears, turning into a cacophony of painful emotions associated with the last time Hannibal said goodbye to him, the time he left Will sobbing on that deserted beach. There is a storm brewing inside Will now too, a hurricane of frustration and desperation. Before he realises, he’s started talking, words and sentences erupting from his mouth like a crashing wave.

“If you go, you’ll leave behind not only your past but also your future, Hannibal. You’ll be forever suspended in time, unable to move backwards or forwards. You’ll never make peace with Mischa’s passing, nor will you ever see me again. Is that what you want to be? Too scared to face your past and too stubborn to embrace your future?”

Hannibal regards him with a stone-cold, dispassionate look on his face and doesn’t respond.

Will’s chest is heaving, feeling like he’s run a marathon, even though they have barely moved. He continues to stare at Hannibal with an exasperated expression, his grip on the man’s shoulders unrelenting. 

“You can leave and choose not to come back. But if you do that, you’ll live the rest of your life knowing that it was you who chose to give up on us,” Will says, his voice down to almost a whisper.

It’s a horrible, horrible thing to resort to emotional manipulation, to sink down to _Hannibal’s level,_ in order to get what he wants. But perhaps, Will is a horrible, horrible man, and Hannibal deserves a taste of his own medicine. 

Hannibal’s eyes flash and he pushes Will back with just enough force to break free of his hold, turns on his heels and stalks away. His departure strikes Will like another blow of the wind, but a thousand times colder, drenching his insides with a deep freeze and turning his heart into a pathetic chunk of ice.

He is a horrible, horrible man, who feels like he has made a horrible, horrible mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? This was the second last chapter and I'm curious to see how everyone envisions this story ending. 
> 
> (there will be a sequel though, don't worry!)


	7. Acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal was prepared for the intrusive memories, the violent throwbacks to the horrors of his past. But what was waiting for him in this castle is far more sinister and debilitating than what he could ever be prepared for. 
> 
> He tries to speak, but not a sound comes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! This one focuses on Hannibal's feelings and experiences of going to Castle Lecter. Those who like angst and pain, buckle up! And those who like soft Hannigram and happy endings, you're in luck too!

Hannibal wonders if hell is quiet.

His personal hell definitely is; the walls of the castle are thick enough to keep the reality out and the nightmares in. Hannibal can hear his own breathing in the silence, far too uneven and shallow for his liking, but no matter how hard he tries to calm his racing mind, he can’t. Every instinct is telling him to run and never come back, flee while he can still stand on his legs, get out before he _crumbles_ \- which is exactly what happened at Mischa’s grave. But he knows he can’t leave. 

There is only one force of nature that is more powerful than Hannibal’s self-preservation instinct.

 _Will_. 

Will was right when he said that if Hannibal walks away from this, he is going to leave behind not only his past, but his future too. It’s cruel and cunning, for Will to bring Hannibal here, to the place where he’s powerless, and force him to stay and confront his demons. Hannibal knows that Will wants to help him overcome his trauma, to make him stronger. He wants to do this because he _loves_ Hannibal. 

And because Hannibal loves him back, he lets Will do exactly that. 

Hannibal knows what love is. It isn’t just violence; destroying everyone and everything that dares to threaten the man who owns his heart. Love is also vulnerability; lowering your defenses to let your beloved in, and allowing them to help you heal. 

Healing isn’t necessarily an unpleasant concept in itself. Hannibal just needs to let go of his pride and stubbornness, his mask of mental and physical invincibility. He’s worn it for so long that the threads holding the mask in place have twisted into a knot that can’t be untangled. The only person with the power to lift that veil off his face is Will. Anywhere other than this castle, Hannibal’s armour would hold. But here, it’s only a matter of time before all the raw emotion inside him breaks down the mental forts he’s built and spills out, no matter how hard he fights to keep them restrained. 

He knows he needs to let go. 

It’s been hours since Hannibal stalked away from Will after hearing his harsh ultimatum, and the alcohol-induced haze has long ago left his mind. Without an altered state of consciousness protecting him from the monsters lurking in the shadows, Hannibal is exposed. Vulnerable. Defenseless. The only thing preventing him from spiralling into his nightmares without return are the faint sounds upstairs, where Will has made himself at home. 

Hannibal is alone in this, but he knows he doesn’t have to be. 

He swallows down the objections of his self-sufficient nature, and opens his mouth to call for Will. To ask where he is, to strike up a conversation. _Anything_. His lips part, intending to spell out the name of his beloved, but suddenly his tongue is glued to his teeth, his throat feels like mush, and his vocal cords feel like they don’t exist at all. 

Hannibal was prepared for the intrusive memories, the violent throwbacks to the horrors of his past. But what was waiting for him in this castle is far more sinister and debilitating than what he could ever be prepared for. 

He tries to speak, but not a sound comes out. 

He gulps and gasps, frantically opening and closing his mouth. He can feel his tongue, teeth and lips; they’re all intact, exactly like they’ve always been, but he can’t _control_ them. His rational mind knows that the ghosts of his past aren’t real. But this is. His muscles and joints refusing to cooperate is real. His mouth being unable to talk is real. _His body betraying him is real._

And it’s worse than anything he imagined. 

Hannibal feels like his young self again, robbed of his voice, his words. A boy who’s only just entering his teenage years, but has already seen the absolute worst of humanity. Wanting nothing more but to speak, to tell his story, to confide in someone. But all he had was a hopeless look in his eyes and a few nondescript hand gestures. 

He’d sworn never to feel so fragile again. All the languages he’s learnt since, his expansive vocabulary and convoluted way of talking are Hannibal’s ways to prove to himself that he isn’t weak or pitiable, that he is the master of his words and tongue. And to have it all stripped away in one second feels like a slap in the face, a blow that shatters his armour and destroys everything he has built, reducing him back to the pathetic and mute mess he once was. 

A voice pierces through the space, startling Hannibal. He gasps and jumps, still in the mind frame of the young boy, jerking in fear every time he saw anyone who resembled the men that took Mischa. Hannibal turns his head and sees Will standing in the doorway, a tentative look on his gorgeous face. 

“Hannibal?” Will repeats, appearing somewhat surprised to see him here. “I thought you left.” 

His words from earlier ring through Hannibal’s mind. 

_If you leave now, you’ll live the rest of your life knowing that it was you who chose to give up on us._

He couldn’t leave, even if the weight of the tormentous childhood memories from this place crushed him alive. Even if they rendered him _speechless_. He stays silent but meets Will’s eyes. 

“Let’s talk about it,” Will suggests, stepping into the room. A small cloud of dust erupts into the air as he sinks into the armchair in the corner. 

Hannibal sighs. _Talk_. He would if he could. But inside these walls, he can’t make a single sound, not even stutter out an incoherent mess of syllables. He shakes his head, the tiniest movement, almost involuntary, intended to chastise himself more than respond to Will. 

“Really, Hannibal?” Will huffs in an annoyed tone, “You’re just going to ignore me?” 

Hannibal wants to shake his head again, with more conviction, adamant that he isn’t ignoring Will. But what good would that do? Will would expect him to speak. And Hannibal can’t. So, he just averts his eyes and concentrates on studying the contents of the antique bookshelf embedded in the wall. 

There is no way he can communicate to Will that he can’t talk. Even if there was, Will wouldn’t understand. He would think this is some kind of a scheme again, a manipulation plan to win his sympathy. 

Hannibal turns his head away, frantically blinking away the moisture collecting at the corners of his eyes while Will can’t see his face, and tries to collect himself. Instead, the tension in his muscles grows stronger, almost breaking into a tremble if it weren’t for his impeccable self-control. 

“You came all the way to this castle just to get drunk and then give me the _silent treatment_?” Will pushes, irritation dripping from his voice now. “Would it kill you to just act normal?” 

Hannibal is shaking now, unmistakably and profoundly; all the words and sentences trapped inside now desperate to break free. He hears Will take a step forward and feels the man’s hand on his shoulder, the grip of his fingers reflecting the same exasperation that was in his voice earlier. Hannibal stills; doesn’t shrug it off but doesn’t lean into the contact either. Then Will’s hand tightens and pulls, physically turning him around and forcing him to face Will. 

And Hannibal snaps. 

He seizes Will’s wrist, eyes flashing in a silent ‘ _don’t’_. But because he can’t speak, his body conveys the message in the only other way it can. He twists his hand that’s holding Will, way more forcefully than necessary, and Will cries out in pain, jerking his arm out of reach. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you!?” he spits, clutching his injured wrist. 

Hannibal stares, his brain catching up what his body did in a spurt of unrestrained emotion. It wasn’t supposed to go _like this._ He’s always perfectly disciplined, always in control of his actions and feelings, and would never let himself be violent without explicit intent.

Hannibal opens his mouth, determined to force himself to sound out ‘ _I’m sorry’_ , even if it’s the last thing he does. But just like before, his mouth doesn’t move. 

All he can do is look at Will with apologetic eyes, hoping that the man understands what he’s trying to say. Will stares back at him, and the hurt expression on his face doesn’t melt away. He shoves Hannibal out of the way and stalks past him, footsteps echoing down the hallway.

***

“You spent months travelling with him, how has he not driven you insane?!” Will grumbles, barging into Chiyoh’s kitchen. 

He slumps down onto a chair and meets the woman’s confused gaze. He intended to leave the Lecter estate to head into the closest bar or anywhere that would serve him liquor, but as he walked past, he noticed that Chiyoh has reoccupied the house she used to live in while guarding the prisoner that tormented Mischa. 

Will needs to talk to someone that isn’t Hannibal, needs to vent out his frustration at the man’s incessant manipulations. He considered pouring his soul out to any lone drunkard at the bar that would listen, but on second thought, talking to Chiyoh would be much safer. Will doesn’t want to risk opening up to a stranger and having them alert the FBI about his and Hannibal’s whereabouts. 

“What makes you say that?” Chiyoh queries. As if Will storming through the door with a scowl wasn’t an obvious indication of how infuriated he is with Hannibal. 

“He twisted my fucking wrist,” Will groans, lifting his arm for Chiyoh to see. 

It’s red and swollen, with bruising already forming where Hannibal’s fingers gripped him. Chiyoh tilts his head to the side, and Will can immediately guess what the gesture is implying. 

“I didn’t do anything wrong. I just asked if we could talk,” he retorts defensively.

She pauses, and Will can practically see the cogs turning in her brain. 

“Oh, I see.”

What does Chiyoh see? Will doesn’t get it. There is sudden sadness and compassion in the young woman’s eyes; strong but inexplicable emotions that Will can’t find the source of. He looks at her with a puzzled expression. 

“When I first met Hannibal, after Lady Murasaki and Count Robertus adopted him from the orphanage, he didn’t speak. He _couldn’t_ speak. At all,” Chiyoh explains. “It had started here, in this castle, after everything happened.”

Then, the realisation strikes Will like a punch in the gut, knocking the breath out of him and twisting his stomach into a knot. 

“You mean like... mutism?”

Chiyoh nods.

Will feels like the worst person on the planet. An insensitive, ignorant and selfish idiot. How did he not see it? How did he miss the trapped and pained look in Hannibal’s eyes? The man looked _terrified_ , and Will stupidly accused him for refusing to talk on purpose. 

“Lady Murasaki taught us sign language so we could communicate with each other,” Chiyoh continues. “Eventually he started talking again. After about two years, I think.”

It hurts to even imagine. Hannibal in his mid-teens, pale and scrawny, adopted from war-struck Lithuania into a new country and new family, not even being able to tell them about his horrific past. Growing up, Will was never much of a talker himself either, but at least he could speak if he wanted to. Hannibal didn’t have that choice. 

“Can you teach me?”

Chiyoh gives Will a small smile and pulls up a chair for herself next to him. 

***

The room belonged to Hannibal’s parents. It used to be beautiful. The ornate wallpaper used to look bright and homely, and the colossal canopy bed with thick blue curtains used to feel like a safe haven, when Hannibal couldn’t sleep at night. Whenever that happened, he would tiptoe to his parents’ bedroom and timidly ask one of them to read him another bedtime story. They’d never say no to him. 

The bed doesn’t feel comforting anymore, but Hannibal curls up on it anyway, burrowing himself under the pristine blankets. The dust accumulated in the fabric during the past few decades makes it difficult to breathe, on top of the lump of words that’s stuck in his throat, unable to be spoken out loud. He feels like he’s going to suffocate, get crushed under the overwhelming weight of the terrors that happened here. Or burst from all the pent up feelings and things he wants to say. 

Hannibal hasn’t heard a single sound coming from anywhere in the castle for hours - and he’s been listening intently. Will is gone. Hannibal hopes it isn’t forever. But he wouldn’t be surprised if Will never returned. He tried to help, and Hannibal hurt him, again. 

And Hannibal couldn’t even get the words out to apologise. 

The book his father used to read is still here, resting on the nightstand where he always kept it. It’s poetry written in old Lithuanian, something Hannibal doesn’t understand. He reads it anyway, focusing on one letter at a time, combining them into words, imagining what they’d sound like when pronounced out loud.

It’s not an easy task, and a pointless one too, but the more difficult the better. Hannibal needs a distraction from his emotions, something tangible he can concentrate his senses and brain onto, to stop them from spinning out of control. If he doesn’t keep himself occupied, he feels like he’s going to break down into a sobbing mess.

And he can’t do that. He isn’t a boy anymore, he isn’t weak or powerless. He is Hannibal Lecter, the Chesapeake Ripper, the Monster of Florence, a strong, esteemed and feared man. But he doesn’t feel like he is. Instead, he feels like he’s dying; his muscles are paralysed and his mouth is unable to utter a single word. 

Hannibal clenches his eyes shut and doesn’t open them. Not until over an hour has passed. Not until he hears footsteps. 

“Hey,” Will’s soft voice fills the room. 

Hannibal looks up. To be in Will’s arms has never looked so enticing as it does now, not even when they slayed the Dragon together and Will admitted that what they have is beautiful. But at the same time, to be in Will’s arms has never looked as unattainable as it does now. Hannibal mistreated him. He doesn’t expect Will to be forgiving. 

Will looks at him, his blue eyes stained with a deep shade of guilt. He lifts his hand and taps the middle of his chest with four fingers pressed together, then taps again closer to his shoulder, as if checking that his body isn’t hurt. Hannibal’s lips part in a silent gasp and his eyes light up. Will is _signing_ to him, asking if he is alright. 

Hannibal blinks rapidly, tears forming in his eyes again, but for a completely different reason. He nods prominently - of course he is alright, how couldn’t he be when Will is here? It’s clear that Will now understands exactly what happened and found a way to communicate with Hannibal.

He’s using Japanese Sign Language. Even if Will knew some form of sign language previously, Hannibal guesses it wouldn’t be Japanese, since Will doesn’t speak Japanese in the first place. It means that Will learned these signs from Chiyoh to specifically communicate with Hannibal. The notion makes Hannibal’s heart swell. He flattens his palms and taps his right hand to his left wrist in an up-and-down motion; a gesture resembling a gate lifting up and allowing someone to move forward. _Thank you._

Will smiles. A tiny quirk of his lips, appearing almost shy, but conveying so much fondness and warmth. He lightly pats his chest with an open palm - _understood_. 

“Can I stay here?” he asks. 

Hannibal sits up and pushes the covers out of the way, making room for Will to sit on the bed next to him. When Will settles on the mattress, he sneezes as the dust particles tickle his nose. In a different setting and different mind frame, Hannibal would probably laugh at that, finding the man’s behaviour endearing. 

He extends his hand out, eyes pointing to Will’s wrist. Will lets him have a look. It’s swollen but doesn’t appear sprained or otherwise damaged. Still, Hannibal brings it up to his lips and kisses the inside of Will’s wrist in a wordless apology. 

“It’s okay,” Will replies, “I was an ass. I shouldn’t have assumed you stopped talking out of stubbornness.” 

Hannibal lets a warm smile spread onto his features and interlaces his fingers with Will’s. Everything still aches, and the tightness in his chest hasn’t fully disappeared, but it’s more bearable now that Will is here. Hannibal feels more grounded, like he’s got a firmer grip on reality, stopping him from being swallowed up by the demons from his past. 

“Chiyoh’s only taught me the basics so far, so if I don’t understand your signs we can use pen and paper, or something like that.”

Will’s voice is calming and smooth, soothing Hannibal’s anxiety like a fast-release sedative. He squeezes Will’s hand gently in response. 

“It’s getting late. We can leave if you want, and find accommodation in town for the night. I know staying here is difficult for you,” Will continues. 

Hannibal doesn't know why he does it, maybe to prove to himself that he can stay the night in the castle just fine, or simply because he’s exhausted, but he shakes his head and settles into a comfortable position on the bed. It’s a cold night and Hannibal barely has any energy to move, so he decides to sleep in the button-up shirt and slacks that he’s wearing. Will follows his lead and lays down beside him, not bothering to undress either, and tugs the covers over their bodies. 

He sneezes again and resorts to pressing his face between Hannibal’s shoulder blades. Hannibal silently wonders if Will did it to hide his eyes, nose and mouth from the annoying dust in the air, or if there is more to it. After everything, he doesn’t dare to hope for Will initiating any affectionate touches between them. 

The answer to Hannibal’s pondering comes very soon, in the form of a gentle arm sliding around his upper body and pulling his back closer into Will’s chest. 

Hannibal falls asleep with a content smile on his face. 

***

Hannibal doesn’t talk the next day. Maybe he could get the words out, but he doesn't dare to try, in case he fails miserably. He despises seeing himself weak. 

At around midday, Chiyoh visits them at the castle and brings fresh meat and vegetables from the markets in town. They’re much better than the canned food Will stocked the cupboards with while he stayed in the castle waiting for Hannibal’s arrival. Hannibal offers to cook for all three of them. It’s a domain where he feels competent and in control, and it provides a distraction from the haunting memories the Lecter estate harbours. 

Will suggests again that they leave, hoping it’ll restore Hannibal’s speech. Hannibal refuses. It’s not the physical place that’s causing him to react like this, it’s his own mind that’s torturing him because he never made peace with the horrors that stained his childhood. 

Hannibal is surprised to learn that the entire time Will spent in the castle waiting for him, he didn’t sleep on any of the numerous beds at the property. He doesn’t ask, but he supposes it’s out of respect to his family and their tragic fate. He doesn’t mind though, and decides that he and Will will sleep in his parents’ old bedroom, since that was where they slept the first night. 

While Will and Chiyoh are finishing up cleaning the bedroom so that it’s habitable and not drowning in dust, Hannibal sneaks outside. He heads out to the paddock where his family used to keep their horses, on the other end of the estate. Far enough not to be heard by the others. 

He tries mumbling out some syllables, but his tongue feels rigid and unmoving, just like yesterday. It dawns on Hannibal that he needs motivation, something more meaningful than the simple desire to talk again. He thinks about Will’s face, his delicate features framed by the thick brown curls at the top and the soft facial hair at the bottom. He thinks about the way Will didn’t pull away when Hannibal held his hand. He thinks about the way Will wrapped an arm around him when they went to sleep, keeping it there all night.

Hannibal practises the word, mouths the shape of it, rolls it around his tongue, hums it until he can feel his vocal cords again. And when he’s confident that he can pronounce it out loud, he does. 

“Will.” 

It’s just a simple one-syllable word, but it means everything. A small victory that encourages Hannibal to try saying other simple words. 

He visits Mischa’s grave again. It goes better than the last time. Hannibal brings a colourful bouquet of flowers that he picked from the overgrown fields surrounding Castle Lecter, and tries singing Mischa’s favourite Lithuanian lullaby. 

But the words don’t come out at all. Even though he made progress before, less than an hour ago. 

Hannibal wonders if it’s to do with the language. He only spoke Lithuanian when the tragedy struck his family and took away his ability to talk. When he was adopted into Uncle Robertus and Aunt Murasaki’s family, they spoke mostly French. So, when Hannibal started talking again, it wasn’t about pushing himself to pronounce Lithuanian words that he knew well, but learning to speak French, a new language altogether. If he focuses on English now as opposed to attempting Lithuanian and practises words and phrases every day, he should regain his fluency of speech in no time. 

Hannibal thinks about it even hours later, when he and Will are huddling by the fireplace, shoulder to shoulder, looking through the Lecter family photo album. When Hannibal flips the page to reveal a particularly sentimental photo of him and Mischa, a small but insidious tremble sets into his hands. Straight away, Will’s hands are there, placed over Hannibal’s, stopping them from shaking. 

“What happened was awful. And it’s okay if you never really make peace with it,” Will tells him softly. 

Hannibal has a million things to say in return, but no ability to do so. So, he says the only word he can. 

“ _Will_.” 

Will blinks, and there is such profound awe, adoration and pride in his eyes that Hannibal knows it was worth it. All the pain was worth it. Coming here and confronting his demons was worth it. 

Because in that moment, he feels the soft and warm press of Will’s lips on his. 

It’s a short and chaste kiss, but it’s all Hannibal needs. No lengthy explorations of each other’s mouths, lips brushing lips, and tongues sliding across teeth. There will be a time for that. Right now, one precious kiss is all that matters - a promise that Will is here, and that he isn’t going anywhere. 

***

It takes several days, pages and pages full of handwritten notes, and lots of animated hand gestures for Hannibal to start talking in fluent sentences. Will thinks of it as the final conquest, one that proves they’re truly as conjoined as they thought; communicating through their shared mind palace when words don’t work. 

Will had already explored every room of the castle on his own, but now, with Hannibal’s permission, he gets to read the diaries Hannibal kept as a boy and see the drawings he made. He wrote and drew a lot about his family, about Mischa, about the things that used to make him happy. Through them, supplemented with his gift of empathy, Will is able to enter the rooms of Hannibal’s mind palace that he keeps securely locked and can’t go in himself. Will works out exactly where and how Hannibal’s parents were killed, and what happened to Hannibal and Mischa afterwards. 

The tragedy is written on the walls, terrors are hanging in the air, violence is hiding in the corners of every room, and Will feels it all, with every fibre of his body. Hannibal’s profuse emotions overflow into him and, paired with the dreadful atmosphere of the castle, it feels like Hannibal’s memories are his own, as if he was there when it happened. There’s tears and shaking, for both of them, but there’s also warm embraces and reassuring touches. And slowly, just like a long-awaited sunrise on a cold morning, the nightmares eventually recede. 

They’re sitting on the large stony steps in front of the castle, watching the first faint rays of sun peek from under the horizon lined by the thick forest. 

“You’ve come such a long way, just to be with me,” Will says. 

They both know he isn’t talking about just the geographical distance. 

“I knew that no matter how demanding the quest, the reward awaiting at the end would be worth it,” Hannibal admits. He glances at their hands, palms pressed together and fingers interlaced. 

“You know I’m never going to leave you, right?” Will tells him in a reassuring tone, meeting his eyes.

“I wouldn’t settle for anything less.”

Will smiles and watches his breath turn into fog in the frosty air. He lets his gaze wander over the expansive grounds of the Lecter estate and beyond, to the places they haven’t conquered yet, the whole wide world open in front of them. 

“Whatever way you choose to deal with your demons, or if you choose not to, I'll support you. And not just that.” Will pauses, squeezing Hannibal’s hand as further emphasis to what he’s saying. “Wherever you go, and whatever you do, I’ll be by your side. I mean it, Hannibal.”

The words carry a lot of weight and commitment, but confessing it out loud doesn’t bother Will. He’s known this for a long time, proven to everyone again and again that he would follow Hannibal to the end of the earth. Because what is the point of living the rest of his life, if it isn’t with the man that owns his heart? 

“Remember when I told you that I would've loved to show you Florence, Will?” Hannibal responds, his features melting into a tender smile. “That was just the first of the many wonders of the world I would like to share with you.”

Will gets on his feet, his hand still in Hannibal’s, pulling the man up with him. Hannibal doesn’t need to say it aloud for both of them to know that he would follow Will to the end, too. 

They’re irreversibly conjoined, two halves of one entity, entangled in each other’s fate, empowered by each other’s love. Like magnets with opposite polarities, they’ve found their way back to each other, despite anyone or anything that stood in their way. Now that they’re together, they are becoming a force of nature that overturns the earth. 

The sun rises, lighting up their faces and the world around them, painting everything with a soft yellow glow.

Will glances at his other half, not dimmed by the shadows anymore.

“Where do you want to go first?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is done, yay!! Now I’m curious to hear everyone’s thoughts on the ending. 
> 
> I’ve been teasing a sequel for this story, and it can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29275398/chapters/71891913)!
> 
> Thank you for all your kudos and comments, they've really made me smile and helped me to stay motivated to write this fic. ...and the sequel(s) <3


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